Notes/Ramble: Nothing to say this time ^^;; But please keep reviewing! They're really nice to come home to.

Disclaimer: Spot and Newsies aren't mine, but Boxer, etc are.


That morning finally came, during the spring thaw in early March. Boxer had told me to get ready the night before. I barely slept a wink, and I woke up early, even before Mr. Johansen, the lodging house manager at the time, came to wake the whole group. I bounced in my bunk, excitement running through my veins, as quietly as possible, because I knew that if I woke someone up at this hour, they'd be really sore on me. Finally, though, dawn came (yes, I woke up _that_ early), and it was time for the newsies to rise.

"C'mon boys, c'mon boys," Mr. Johansen announced as he paraded into the bunkroom. "Time to sell the papes!"

"Carryin' the bannah," Boxer said sleepily, waving his hand as he laid face down in his bed.

"That's right, Boxer, so you gotta get up!" He smacked Boxer on the back of the head and continued making his rounds. "Raff, Patches, Mike, Bars, all of you, get up!" Mr. Johansen peeked his head under Raff's bed to the bed where I slept. "C'mon, Spot, it's your first - "

"Morning, Mr. Johansen!" I exclaimed cheerily, springing out of my bed.

Mr. Johansen practically jumped out of his skin.

"Jesus, boy, tell me when you're gonna do that!" he scolded me.

"Sorry 'bout that," I grinned.

"Go get dressed, would ya? The rest of the boys are gonna beat you to the mirrors, and you want to look sharp on your first day."

"Thanks!" I sprinted into the sink room, but the only other person there was Lanny. He was shaving. "Morning, Lanny!" I called.

"Heya, Spot," Lanny said, his attentions on the mirror. "Ready for your first day on the job?"

"Yeah!" I was completely ecstatic.

"Boxah still takin' ya out?"

"Yeah."

Lanny grinned as he flicked the last globs of shaving cream off his face.

"Youse'll be a great newsie someday, yanno that, Spot? Youse is loinin' from the best in everythin' a newsie needs to know - fightin' and sellin'."

I took my face out of the sink I had been washing my face in and nodded vigorously.

"Lanny, yer such a suck up," Arrow said as he came into the room with a towel over his shoulder. "Yer just sayin' all that so Boxah puts you in charge of the house when he leaves."

"Shut yer damn mouth, Arrow," Lanny snapped. "I can say whatever I wants as long as it's true."

"But isn't Mr. Johansen in charge of the lodging house?" I asked Arrow as he washed his face.

"Yeah, but he just collects the lodgin' fees an' all that. Boxah's the one who keeps us all in line. We all respect 'im, after all, and he knows it."

"Why are ya sayin' he's leaving?"

"Every newsie moves on, Spot. Hand me that towel, wouldja?" I did. "Thanks," he said as he wiped the soapy water off his face. "Boxah was left in charge of us by the last leadah, Flashpots, when he left 'bout two years ago. An' Boxah's getting up to dat age, so it'll be safe to say that he'll probably be goin' on to bigger and better things in a little while."

"I don't believe you," I said, shaking my head. Boxer, leave? Impossible! That was like the sky falling. Or God dying. It just wasn't the way things worked to me.

Arrow shrugged. "Believe whatcha want, then, Spot."

"Youse tellin' Spot lies about me, Arrow?" Boxer had entered the room without either of us noticing.

"Just preparin' him for the truth," Arrow explained with a shrug.

"Well I ain't leavin' any time soon, so don't worry about it." He patted me on the head. "Ready for our first day?" I looked up at him and nodded with bright, adoring eyes. "Just gimme a minute," he said as he buttoned up his shirt. "There we go."

"The presses are rolling, boys!" Mr. Johansen called to everyone. The sink room was completely full of boys dressing and washing now. "Hurry yourselves up before the rest of Manhattan buys their papes and you're left with no pay! And if you've got no pay, you've got no bed!"

"C'mon, Boxah," I said, pulling on his sleeve. "He said the presses are rollin'!" We'se gotta hurry!"

Boxer laughed.

"That's just somethin' he says to get us all out of his sight sooner." A dejected look swept across my face. "But don't worry, just fer you we'll head on out right this second," he added, and we headed towards the door.

"Wait for me, Boxah," Lanny said, fixing his suspenders as he ran to catch up to us.

"Suck up!" Arrow taunted from the sink room.

"Suck up, suck up!" Patches, a newsie even younger than me, echoed him.

"What's all dat about?" Boxer asked Lanny as the three of us walked outside.

"Nothin'," Lanny said, shaking his head. "Just Arrow bein' a jackass."

"Watch yer mouth in front of the kid."

"'Jackass' ain't a cuss word, Boxah."

"It is if Spot's around." He looked at me. "No cursin' til yer at least thirteen, okay, Spot?"

"Yessir," I agreed.

"Don't call me 'sir', eithah. I'm just plain ol' Boxah, remember dat."

"Okay."

We were now in front of a large building with ornate green gates.

"Welcome to da World," Boxer said.

Everything almost overwhelmed me as I looked up. Home of Joseph Pulitzer. A newsie heaven. The New York World. There seemed to be hundreds of them around, buying papes, comparing counts and headlines, joking amiably. Something inside told me that this is what I'd been waiting to do with my life, to sell papes with Boxer and Lanny and live in the Lodging House. Looking around, I saw a man leading two boys a couple years older than me around back.

"Come on Oscar, come on Morris, you're going to visit your uncle today," he told them, and then disappeared behind a door.

I felt someone tug my arm gently.

"Let's get a move on, Spot," Boxer told me. We (Lanny, Boxer, and I) passed through the gates, up the ramp, and to the window. The other newsies must have known Boxer well, because they let him pass without a problem. "Top of the mornin' to ya, Weasel," he said, leaning against the ledge of the selling window.

"I've told ya my name a thousand times, Boxah. Get it right for once, wouldja?" the grumpy man behind the counter griped.

"A thousand and one times wouldn't hurt, yanno."

"Cut the jokes, how many papes - "

"Unca Weasel!" one of the two boys I'd seen out front came running towards him.

"Seems the kids got it right, don't they?" Boxer smirked.

Weasel looked like he was going to bust out of his skin.

"How many papes?" he asked icily.

"Well, I'se got a new sellin' partner here, it's his first day, so..." He held up two quarters for Weasel to see. "I think a hundred would be a good start."

"New sellin' partner?" Weasel took the money and craned his eyes through the window to down at me. "Who's dis?"

"A kid Mike a'n Raff found in the snowbanks back in January. 'is name's Spot Conlon."

Nice to meetcha, Weasel," I said, following Boxer's usage of the name.

"Yeah, yeah." Weasel slapped the papes onto the counter. "Get outta here, Boxah, and while yer out sellin', try setting the kid straight on my name."

"Whatevah ya say, Weasel," Boxer said as he took the stack and handed me a few. He started leading me down the ramp when Lanny began speaking to Weasel.

"So, how many for you?" Weasel asked him.

"Fifty'd be great, if ya don't mind," Lanny replied.

"Oscar, get the kid fifty. Morris'll help ya count."

"Do I hafta, Uncle Weasel?" little Morris complained.

"Just do it."

"Hey, Spot," Boxer said, snapping his fingers as he tried to get me back to attention. "What are ya dallyin' for? We'se got papes ta sell."

"Ain't we waitin' for Lanny?"

"Lanny's got his own selling spot down by Central Park. We'se headin' to the harbor. C'mon, we'se gotta hurry up so we can catch the crowds."

Boxer and I began to walk in that direction, but since I was younger and smaller, I couldn't keep up with his fast pace.

"Boxah!" I called out ahead.

"Yeah, Spot?"

He stopped and turned around to look at me.

"Can we take a quick rest?"

His face softened.

"Shoah."

So the two of us sat down on a few spare boxes outside a fruit market. Boxer took a paper and began to read.

"I'll give ya your first lesson right now," Boxer told me. "The key to sellin' papes is in the headlines. Can ya read?" I nodded. "What does that headline say?" I read it out loud to him. "Bad headline, right?" I nodded again. "Wrong. The first thing youse gotta learn is that it don't matter how bad the headline reads, because headlines don't sell papes. Newsies sell papes. That's the most important thing for any newsie to ever know, so don't evah forget it."

"But if the headline's bad, how do you sell 'em?"

"Improve the truth a bit." He opened the paper he was holding and pointed to a headline. "'Mayor's governess voted for opponent.' Real trite stuff. Now watch this." Boxer closed the pape and waved it in the air, shouting, "'Mayor's governess has affair with opponent!' Read the story for just a penny!"

An old man walked up to us.

"I'll take one, please," he said. Boxer handed him the pape, and I took the penny. "Thank you."

"No, thank _you_," Boxer said charismatically. When the man left, he looked over at me.

"That's how it's done. You wanna try?"

"Yeah!"

I was eager to prove myself. I took a pape from the small stack Boxer had handed me and yelled out as loud as I could, "'MAYOR'S GOVERNESS SMASHES IN OPPONENTS NOSE!!" I'm sure that sounded hilarious coming from a little nine-year-old like me, but people came up to me and bought papes. The headlines always sound more interesting when the younger crowd announces them. By the time the small crowd had subsided, Boxer and I had sold ten papes. Ten cents.

"Youse was born fer dis, Spot," Boxer told me as he stuck the pennies in his pocket. "I'll give ya your share later."

"Are we still gonna head to the harbor?" I asked him.

'Course. An' we'll sell a few papes along the way," he told me. "C'mon, Spot."

But we never did make it to the harbor that day. We spent our time trying our luck out the street corners, and we somehow ended up selling all of our papes before we came within blocks of our destination. It was mid-afternoon when we arrived back at the lodging house.

"Welcome back, Boxer," Mr. Johansen said to us. "Paying your dues?"

"Yessir," Boxer said as he put two pennies on the table. "Spot too."

"Is that so?" Mr. Johansen asked, peering at me over his spectacles. I nodded. "Well, then, this is an important day!"

He tapped his fountain pen on the ink-splotched page with the heading of 'Tenants'.

"You'll have to sign in, then, if you're a paying member of the house."

Mr. Johansen gave the pen to Boxer first, who signed his name in neat, large print: Alan Hunt, and directly following it, in parentheses, Boxer. Then Boxer held the pen out to me, but didn't put it into my hand before instructing:

"Make your letters nice an' careful fer Mr. Johansen to read."

Then he gave me the pen and I signed "Spot Conlon" in the neatest script I could. Boxer looked at me, impressed.

"I knew you could read, kid, but write, too?" He ruffled my hair and flashed a glowing smile. "Smart kid. He's a real smart kid, Mr. Johansen. 'e'll be sellin' the most papes of anyone in Manhattan by the time 'e's fourteen, and maybe even earlier!"

Mr. Johansen just smiled and nodded, and we continued into the lodging room.

"How was your first day?" asked Mike as we entered.

"I'm tellin' ya, boys, the kid's a natural!" Boxer announced to them. "The citizens of New Yawk just love 'im! We sold all our papes before ten, at least!"

"But where ya been since then?" Watcher asked us. "We'se been waitin' for you two all aftahnoon."

"Took a brief lunch at Tibby's to celebrate our newfound success."

And we had. At the time, it was the best meal I'd ever eaten.

"Best meal I'se ever had," I added, grinning. See? I told you it was good.

"How nice a' ya to invite us all, Boxah," Arrow muttered sarcastically.

"Go stick it up yer rear, Arrow," Raff said. "Youse wasn't the one out sellin' papes wit Spot."

"Yeah, I'm sure you had a good time stealin' whatever food's in yer belly right now," Mike added.

"Stop gangin' up on him, you two," Boxer told Mike and Raff. "Arrow can say whatevah 'e wants, same as you."

"Then I'se'll ask - can Spot sell wit us tomorrow?"

Boxer laughed.

"'e's sellin' with me til the day I die," he told Mike. "Ain't no way I'm lettin' a kid this good go!" He had been raving like that all afternoon to anyone who'd listen, and it was making me feel more and more proud by the minute. "I'll make 'im the best newsie New Yawk's ever seen."

I just smiled, feeling as proud and accomplished as any newsie ever could.