A/N: Second chapter finished!!! YAY! Anyways, on to the thank you page.
SpotLover421: Thanks bunches, with cherries! And, btw, I liked the second chapter of your one story there, ClearWaterAcedemy! Keep writing.
AnUNDERCOVERnewsie: Don't follow me! (I'm paranoid enough already!) But thanks and I will continue to write.
TheCrazyUnknown: You are, seriously, too kind to me! What did I do to have to you give me all these great reviews?! Anyways, thanks again, I wish I could give ya something, but I ain't got nothing. (I read your bio and say I was on your favorite authors list, and I am touched!) So here's the second chapter for you!!
(And the others of course!! ()
* * *
Chapter Two: The Other Side of Brooklyn
Spot Conlon watched the newsies he was in charge of burst through the door of the lodging house, smiles lighting their faces and laughter escaping their lips. They looked like a rag tag group of street kids - which in reality was what they were. It reminded him of how he and his boys used to be once upon a time. But those days had ended close to six years earlier and all his old friends were far gone by now. The only person he associated with occasionally was Racetrack and that was only because their boys got in some many fights.
"Hey Spot, how's it rollin?" Burn, the now leader of the Brooklyn kids, smirked up at his hero. The man he modeled his leadership skills from. Spot had made them all promise to call him that instead of 'Mr.Conlon', it made him feel older then his actual twenty-five years.
"Not bad, Burn. How's da sellin today?" He asked making conversation.
"Oh, it's jist perfect sir. Da good headlines are comin round. Makes fer easier sellin an' such," He explained as if Spot had never been a newsie as himself.
"Good ta know, because youse are definitely number one of m bad list because youse owe me close to a dollar," Spot reminded him, not-so-subtly.
"Aw, but Spot, I'se been a good worker! Can' wese jist ferget about da dept?" Burn complained.
Spot threw him a look that clearly blackmailed that idea. Sighing, the sixteen year old dug into his pockets and came up with just over sixty cents, paying most of the dept he had dug himself into.
"Youse drive a hard bargain boss," He said. Spot laughed good-naturedly and scribbled in his sign-in book, marking off the dept as repaid fully. He could cut the kids a break once in a while.
Above him, the newsies settled into their own routines. Some went off into the corner and played a nasty almost cut-throat game of poker. While others just screwed around with each other. (And not that way) Burn and Cross- Match would teach some of the younger ones too fight, which always led to bruises and next morning complainants. And the sad thing was they would go on like that for hours, blissful in their doings until it was time to sleep or go out for the night.
"Excuse me, Mr. Conlon sir? Is Burn in? Wese need ta tawk ta 'im fer a few," A familiar voice broke into his mid-day musings.
He raised his eyes and came face to face with the seventeen year old leader of the Manhattan newsies. Splinter wasn't alone either. Benji and Rookie were standing on either of his sides. All three had set smirks and confident looks on their faces. As if they were here to prove something. Spot didn't trust expressions like that. It was practically like announcing that something was going to go down.
" 'E's up in da bunkhouse. But Splinter, I'se don' want no trouble ya hear?" Spot accented, narrowing his eyes. Splinter flinched under the glare, but then again what newsie wouldn't? He nodded then made his way over to the stairs leading to the bunks.
Silence followed and Spot listened closely for any signs of a fight. Just waiting for the screaming and thumps to be heard. But neither came. Instead, some pounding on the stairways resided through the echoing house, soon to revel the crowd of newsies, talking excitedly to themselves. Splinter in the lead, Burn beside him, a doubtful look spread across his face.
" 'Ay! Where ya bums t'ink yer runnin off too?" Spot called, which stopped all the newsies in their tracks. Burn turned around to face him and thought about how he was going to say this.
"Splinter's jist got somethin ta show us, dat's all," He answered, licking his lips nervously. His hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. Spot simply raised an eyebrow, not liking the way Burn sounded.
"Show ya what?"
" 'Ay, why's don' ya come wit us Conlon? Wese could 'ave a showdown 'er somethin," Rookie suggested seriously, a smile creeping onto his face. He was one of the biggest fighters in New York and loved a good one when he saw one.
Spot thought quickly and reacted even quicker. He sprang from his desk and walked over to the two leaders and the two other Manhattan boys. He told the rest of the Brooklyn ones to stay put while he was gone. To follow Crazy's lead. (Crazy being the second most respected newsie beside Burn)
The small gang walked over to Manhattan in silence. Spot stayed behind the rest of them, wondering what was so important that they thought even he should see or know. The four boys ahead of him were concentrating on the road, making sure they turned and twisted with the bridge as they changed territories. Spot already knew the twists, like the roads in his mind they were well worn to him. His feet could take him there without his knowing and had on several occasions in the past eight years. His safe haven. His own version of heaven, although shadowed and tangled in the mixture of emotions he felt upon stepping into Manhattan, he loved that part of New York. Even more then his own place.
Of course, there was a reason for that. A reason that his mind often wandered too in the mornings after the youngins had left him alone in the stuffy house. Memories would sweep through his so violently he could hardly breath through the cluster of emotions that caught in the back of his throat. He didn't cry anymore. He had in the beginning, but he had learned to control himself when he became the owner of the Brooklyn lodging house. Things hadn't changed much during that time. Instead of being a newsie, he was in charge of them. And they respected him.
They always respected him.
After he had left, the rumors started with a vengeance. Spinner having started them, and making his knowledge known throughout Harlem, Queens and the rest of Brooklyn. People were doubtful, but when Spot denied none of them, they began to wonder if they were right after. The rumors were finally killed when Spot's boys (excluding Rage) spoke in his defense, and the Manhattan boys backed him up. Now no one besides Race and the other's knew the truth. Spot preferred it that way. It was less torturous when people wouldn't pass him knowing he was shattered inside and cold outside.
Rage had left Brooklyn not long after the end of the rumors. Roller had told him it was because Rage was jealous of Jack or something to that matter. Roller was vague enough that Spot didn't understand very well, only enough to know better than to ask anymore.
Eight years. . .
Eight years in a desert of people, filth and broken feelings. Loneliness clouded over him most of the time, the only people to help him forget about Jack being his own newsies. Since Jack's departure, Race and Spot stayed in touch (as said earlier) but the alliance that had been formed between the two boroughs died quickly. Splinter and Burn despised each other and probably always would. Despite the owners friendship, fights and small wars broke out all the time.
And now he was on his way over to the Manhattan lodging house with the aforementioned boys and two of Splinter's right hand men. He was at least comforted by the fact that none of them would try anything with him so near by. All they wanted to do was show them something.
But what?
"Wese 'ere. Now, Burny, you're not gonna understand at first. But maybe yer precious Conlon will provide an explanation," Splinter said when they had finally reached their destination. All five people walked into the lodging house without another word, while Spot and Burn were led through the house and up to the bunks where talking and laughing could be heard.
Benji opened the door quietly so as to not disturb the conversations. Splinter led the others in and cleared his throat once all were in the room. The newsies attention was caught instantly by their older leader's. Eyes staring wide at Burn and Spot. Burn was looking at the other man in the room. Spot's eyes had fallen on one particular bunk which lay unoccupied. He didn't even notice anyone else was in the room at the time.
"Who's dis? Should I know 'im?" Burn asked casually, glancing at the grown man who had walked over to Splinter, a wide smirk covering his mouth. He had short brown hair, some falling lightly over his face. His brown eyes sparkled and he towered over the boys all around him. He didn't recognize the man in front of him but he felt he should for some reason.
"Youse knows 'im. Although, not really." Splinter took a step forward and pointed back at Burn while talking to the man. "Dis 'ere is Burn. 'E's da leadah of da Brooklyn newsies."
The man looked down at the boy of no more than sixteen standing slightly nervous in front of him. So this was the Brooklyn boy now. He looked like he could keep his own, but who knew? His eyes shifted to the other man they had brought in. He was definitely older than the leader. And staring at one of the bunks. He glanced quickly at which one and realized, strangely, it was his old bed. He narrowed his eyes and walked over to the man behind Burn. Dirty blonde hair, short, thin, crystal blue eyes. . . he reached out and grabbed the man's wrist twirling him over to face him. And when he did, his eyes widened and his breathing became rushed.
Spot felt himself being pulled in another direction, he also felt a strong grip on his wrist forcing to go with the movement. He snarled in his throat and looked down at his arm. No one touched him so roughly and got away from it. Especially not some young punky newsie. He looked up sharply, fully intending to reprimand him in some way. But when he caught those eyes staring down at him in shock he felt his heart jump straight from his chest to this mouth.
'It can't be. It can't. He's gone. Eight years now, he isn't coming back. It's not him, don't get too excited,' His mind yelled at his body, but the rest of him would hear none of it. His pale eyes gazed slowly over the face above him, taking it in. The same strong jaw line, same hair, same tasty lips, same naturally pink cheeks, same soft eyes. . .it was him. It had to be.
"Jack?" He breathed finally. He had to be sure. He also prayed that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him and that he had just made a fool of himself.
"Yeah, yeah. . .it's me," The voice answered. That was the final confirmation. Not the words. The voice, he'd recognize that voice a mile away. He felt Jack let go of his wrist and without warning reached down and hugged Spot to him.
Spot hugged back, but let go before anyone could get to suspicious of anything. Those rumors still had him paranoid even eight years down the road.
"Wait, wait, wait. Youse is Jack Kelly?" Burn's cracked voice asked from the side.
Jack smirked and looked down at the boy beside Spot. "Well, technically yeah. That's my name, kid."
"But youse was gone! Out in da west!" He exclaimed.
"Was. Yes. But I'm back."
"Fer how long?"
" 'Til I die, I suppose."
Spot stared intently at Jack. He was staying? For good? No more leaving, no more anything. He was really truly going to be in New York til he died? He surpassed a smile of his own by biting his lip.
"When did ya get 'ere Jack?" Spot asked quietly. A voice he never used, and he was quite certain he saw Burn raise an eyebrow and a surprised look go over Splinter's face.
"Just yesterday. I'm staying here with Race and the boys. Til I find a place of my own," He added, looking back at Spot's face. Which, although aged some, still looked as good as it did when they were both eighteen.
"Were youse plannin ta visit anytime soon dere Cowboy?" He said in a sarcastic, but light hearted way. Jack laughed gently at the use of his old nickname. He hadn't been called 'Cowboy' in a long time.
"Sure, I was. I couldn't just move here and not look up my old friend Spot Conlon? What would I get then, huh?" He countered.
"Lynched probably."
"Exactly, I like my body in one piece thank you."
This time Spot bit his tongue to keep from answering that statement with something like, 'I do too,' and just smiled while shaking his head.
It was then that the younger Manhattan boys began crowding around Jack again, probably looking more stories and words uttered from there hero. Jack let himself be led away, but only after mouthing, 'We'll talk later', to Spot and knowing from his nod of agreement that Spot had seen that.
Burn and Spot left the lodging house soon after, by themselves this time, and headed back in the direction of Brooklyn. Burn had a slightly misunderstood look on his face while Spot was trying to contain himself from smiling so hard his face might break. It was Burn who's voice gaped through the cool night air that was swirling all around the pair.
"I'se didn' know youse an' Kelly were suppos' ta be such good friends."
Spot glanced out of the corner of his eyes at him. "Yeah, wese was good friend. I'se figured everyone knew dat."
"Nah. . .wese t'ought you 'ated each udderh or somethin," the newsie shrugged his shoulders, kicking a small stone with his foot, his head bent down.
"It's impossible, or at least damn hard too, to hate Jack Kelly. If youse knew 'im, youse would understand dat."
"Maybe. . . but I'se. . .HEARD things about 'im dat, um, make me uncomfortable," Burn stumbled over his words. His eyes not meeting Spot's or staying focused on anything for that matter.
"What kind of. . .things?" Spot asked cautiously.
"It's nuthin, ferget I'se said anything." The words came out mumbled and Burn stuffed his hands in his pockets.
"Don' tell me ta ferget it. Dis is me close friend wese are talking about an' I'se want ta know if an' what someone' been sayin about 'im."
"Jist little things, ya know? Dat, uh, dat 'e doesn' like goils. An' dat 'e tried ta put da moves on ya once."
Spot was glad the coolness of the air didn't immediately turn heated from the anger that rose in his body, coming out of his eyes and ears. So rumors hadn't really ended, at least not totally. That bothered him. Who after all this time would still be spreading them? Another leader? An old enemy? Who? He reached out and roughly turned Burn to face him, letting his anger shine through. Blazing. Burn's eyes widened in fear and he flinched from Spot's touch.
"Don' youse believe any of dat shit, ya hear me? It ain't true. Not a word of it. I'se 'ave known Jack fer ten years now an' 'e ain't nevah, 'put da moves' on me, ya hear? Dat understood?"
Burn nodded violently.
"Good," He let go of his arm and turned back in the direction they were heading. "An' youse tell anyone else who believes dat stuff da same thing. I'se don' want no newsies of mine disrespecting Jack. Especially not after everything 'e did wit da strike ta help you kids."
Again Burn only nodded, his eyes still wide. He was shook up and didn't say a thing the rest of the way.
Spot thought what the next day could possibly bring. He had to talk to Jack, that much was for certain. Find out what he had been doing for the past eight years of his life in the old west. Find out if he had a job, friends and what not down there. But most of all, find out if he had a family. Wife, kids, girlfriend. . .anything. Or if he was like Spot. Alone. Maybe a fling or two, but nothing beyond a little comfort. Comfort that didn't mean anything when all you could do the whole time was imagine someone else's face.
His eyes fluttered closed as he thought of Jack. He was back for good. And staying, if only temporally, at the Manhattan lodging house. By tomorrow every newsie in New York would know he was back and would be asking about him. Alone time would be hard to buy, but since he was Spot Conlon, he figured he could pull it off with relative ease. All he wanted to do was talk to him.
Well, that wasn't true. He wanted to do much more than that, but who knew how the tides may have changed for Jack in eight years. He might not have thought of Spot at all.
Spot squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his comforter closer to his body. Sinking into the safe feel of them. His thoughts drifted from negative to positive. Imagining that Jack may be doing the same thing over the bridge at that same moment. That too, gave him a sense of comfort. Tomorrow would be a good day. How did he know? Because his prayers had been answered. And Jack had kept his promise.
He was back.
For good.
And what could possibly be bad about that?
SpotLover421: Thanks bunches, with cherries! And, btw, I liked the second chapter of your one story there, ClearWaterAcedemy! Keep writing.
AnUNDERCOVERnewsie: Don't follow me! (I'm paranoid enough already!) But thanks and I will continue to write.
TheCrazyUnknown: You are, seriously, too kind to me! What did I do to have to you give me all these great reviews?! Anyways, thanks again, I wish I could give ya something, but I ain't got nothing. (I read your bio and say I was on your favorite authors list, and I am touched!) So here's the second chapter for you!!
(And the others of course!! ()
* * *
Chapter Two: The Other Side of Brooklyn
Spot Conlon watched the newsies he was in charge of burst through the door of the lodging house, smiles lighting their faces and laughter escaping their lips. They looked like a rag tag group of street kids - which in reality was what they were. It reminded him of how he and his boys used to be once upon a time. But those days had ended close to six years earlier and all his old friends were far gone by now. The only person he associated with occasionally was Racetrack and that was only because their boys got in some many fights.
"Hey Spot, how's it rollin?" Burn, the now leader of the Brooklyn kids, smirked up at his hero. The man he modeled his leadership skills from. Spot had made them all promise to call him that instead of 'Mr.Conlon', it made him feel older then his actual twenty-five years.
"Not bad, Burn. How's da sellin today?" He asked making conversation.
"Oh, it's jist perfect sir. Da good headlines are comin round. Makes fer easier sellin an' such," He explained as if Spot had never been a newsie as himself.
"Good ta know, because youse are definitely number one of m bad list because youse owe me close to a dollar," Spot reminded him, not-so-subtly.
"Aw, but Spot, I'se been a good worker! Can' wese jist ferget about da dept?" Burn complained.
Spot threw him a look that clearly blackmailed that idea. Sighing, the sixteen year old dug into his pockets and came up with just over sixty cents, paying most of the dept he had dug himself into.
"Youse drive a hard bargain boss," He said. Spot laughed good-naturedly and scribbled in his sign-in book, marking off the dept as repaid fully. He could cut the kids a break once in a while.
Above him, the newsies settled into their own routines. Some went off into the corner and played a nasty almost cut-throat game of poker. While others just screwed around with each other. (And not that way) Burn and Cross- Match would teach some of the younger ones too fight, which always led to bruises and next morning complainants. And the sad thing was they would go on like that for hours, blissful in their doings until it was time to sleep or go out for the night.
"Excuse me, Mr. Conlon sir? Is Burn in? Wese need ta tawk ta 'im fer a few," A familiar voice broke into his mid-day musings.
He raised his eyes and came face to face with the seventeen year old leader of the Manhattan newsies. Splinter wasn't alone either. Benji and Rookie were standing on either of his sides. All three had set smirks and confident looks on their faces. As if they were here to prove something. Spot didn't trust expressions like that. It was practically like announcing that something was going to go down.
" 'E's up in da bunkhouse. But Splinter, I'se don' want no trouble ya hear?" Spot accented, narrowing his eyes. Splinter flinched under the glare, but then again what newsie wouldn't? He nodded then made his way over to the stairs leading to the bunks.
Silence followed and Spot listened closely for any signs of a fight. Just waiting for the screaming and thumps to be heard. But neither came. Instead, some pounding on the stairways resided through the echoing house, soon to revel the crowd of newsies, talking excitedly to themselves. Splinter in the lead, Burn beside him, a doubtful look spread across his face.
" 'Ay! Where ya bums t'ink yer runnin off too?" Spot called, which stopped all the newsies in their tracks. Burn turned around to face him and thought about how he was going to say this.
"Splinter's jist got somethin ta show us, dat's all," He answered, licking his lips nervously. His hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. Spot simply raised an eyebrow, not liking the way Burn sounded.
"Show ya what?"
" 'Ay, why's don' ya come wit us Conlon? Wese could 'ave a showdown 'er somethin," Rookie suggested seriously, a smile creeping onto his face. He was one of the biggest fighters in New York and loved a good one when he saw one.
Spot thought quickly and reacted even quicker. He sprang from his desk and walked over to the two leaders and the two other Manhattan boys. He told the rest of the Brooklyn ones to stay put while he was gone. To follow Crazy's lead. (Crazy being the second most respected newsie beside Burn)
The small gang walked over to Manhattan in silence. Spot stayed behind the rest of them, wondering what was so important that they thought even he should see or know. The four boys ahead of him were concentrating on the road, making sure they turned and twisted with the bridge as they changed territories. Spot already knew the twists, like the roads in his mind they were well worn to him. His feet could take him there without his knowing and had on several occasions in the past eight years. His safe haven. His own version of heaven, although shadowed and tangled in the mixture of emotions he felt upon stepping into Manhattan, he loved that part of New York. Even more then his own place.
Of course, there was a reason for that. A reason that his mind often wandered too in the mornings after the youngins had left him alone in the stuffy house. Memories would sweep through his so violently he could hardly breath through the cluster of emotions that caught in the back of his throat. He didn't cry anymore. He had in the beginning, but he had learned to control himself when he became the owner of the Brooklyn lodging house. Things hadn't changed much during that time. Instead of being a newsie, he was in charge of them. And they respected him.
They always respected him.
After he had left, the rumors started with a vengeance. Spinner having started them, and making his knowledge known throughout Harlem, Queens and the rest of Brooklyn. People were doubtful, but when Spot denied none of them, they began to wonder if they were right after. The rumors were finally killed when Spot's boys (excluding Rage) spoke in his defense, and the Manhattan boys backed him up. Now no one besides Race and the other's knew the truth. Spot preferred it that way. It was less torturous when people wouldn't pass him knowing he was shattered inside and cold outside.
Rage had left Brooklyn not long after the end of the rumors. Roller had told him it was because Rage was jealous of Jack or something to that matter. Roller was vague enough that Spot didn't understand very well, only enough to know better than to ask anymore.
Eight years. . .
Eight years in a desert of people, filth and broken feelings. Loneliness clouded over him most of the time, the only people to help him forget about Jack being his own newsies. Since Jack's departure, Race and Spot stayed in touch (as said earlier) but the alliance that had been formed between the two boroughs died quickly. Splinter and Burn despised each other and probably always would. Despite the owners friendship, fights and small wars broke out all the time.
And now he was on his way over to the Manhattan lodging house with the aforementioned boys and two of Splinter's right hand men. He was at least comforted by the fact that none of them would try anything with him so near by. All they wanted to do was show them something.
But what?
"Wese 'ere. Now, Burny, you're not gonna understand at first. But maybe yer precious Conlon will provide an explanation," Splinter said when they had finally reached their destination. All five people walked into the lodging house without another word, while Spot and Burn were led through the house and up to the bunks where talking and laughing could be heard.
Benji opened the door quietly so as to not disturb the conversations. Splinter led the others in and cleared his throat once all were in the room. The newsies attention was caught instantly by their older leader's. Eyes staring wide at Burn and Spot. Burn was looking at the other man in the room. Spot's eyes had fallen on one particular bunk which lay unoccupied. He didn't even notice anyone else was in the room at the time.
"Who's dis? Should I know 'im?" Burn asked casually, glancing at the grown man who had walked over to Splinter, a wide smirk covering his mouth. He had short brown hair, some falling lightly over his face. His brown eyes sparkled and he towered over the boys all around him. He didn't recognize the man in front of him but he felt he should for some reason.
"Youse knows 'im. Although, not really." Splinter took a step forward and pointed back at Burn while talking to the man. "Dis 'ere is Burn. 'E's da leadah of da Brooklyn newsies."
The man looked down at the boy of no more than sixteen standing slightly nervous in front of him. So this was the Brooklyn boy now. He looked like he could keep his own, but who knew? His eyes shifted to the other man they had brought in. He was definitely older than the leader. And staring at one of the bunks. He glanced quickly at which one and realized, strangely, it was his old bed. He narrowed his eyes and walked over to the man behind Burn. Dirty blonde hair, short, thin, crystal blue eyes. . . he reached out and grabbed the man's wrist twirling him over to face him. And when he did, his eyes widened and his breathing became rushed.
Spot felt himself being pulled in another direction, he also felt a strong grip on his wrist forcing to go with the movement. He snarled in his throat and looked down at his arm. No one touched him so roughly and got away from it. Especially not some young punky newsie. He looked up sharply, fully intending to reprimand him in some way. But when he caught those eyes staring down at him in shock he felt his heart jump straight from his chest to this mouth.
'It can't be. It can't. He's gone. Eight years now, he isn't coming back. It's not him, don't get too excited,' His mind yelled at his body, but the rest of him would hear none of it. His pale eyes gazed slowly over the face above him, taking it in. The same strong jaw line, same hair, same tasty lips, same naturally pink cheeks, same soft eyes. . .it was him. It had to be.
"Jack?" He breathed finally. He had to be sure. He also prayed that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him and that he had just made a fool of himself.
"Yeah, yeah. . .it's me," The voice answered. That was the final confirmation. Not the words. The voice, he'd recognize that voice a mile away. He felt Jack let go of his wrist and without warning reached down and hugged Spot to him.
Spot hugged back, but let go before anyone could get to suspicious of anything. Those rumors still had him paranoid even eight years down the road.
"Wait, wait, wait. Youse is Jack Kelly?" Burn's cracked voice asked from the side.
Jack smirked and looked down at the boy beside Spot. "Well, technically yeah. That's my name, kid."
"But youse was gone! Out in da west!" He exclaimed.
"Was. Yes. But I'm back."
"Fer how long?"
" 'Til I die, I suppose."
Spot stared intently at Jack. He was staying? For good? No more leaving, no more anything. He was really truly going to be in New York til he died? He surpassed a smile of his own by biting his lip.
"When did ya get 'ere Jack?" Spot asked quietly. A voice he never used, and he was quite certain he saw Burn raise an eyebrow and a surprised look go over Splinter's face.
"Just yesterday. I'm staying here with Race and the boys. Til I find a place of my own," He added, looking back at Spot's face. Which, although aged some, still looked as good as it did when they were both eighteen.
"Were youse plannin ta visit anytime soon dere Cowboy?" He said in a sarcastic, but light hearted way. Jack laughed gently at the use of his old nickname. He hadn't been called 'Cowboy' in a long time.
"Sure, I was. I couldn't just move here and not look up my old friend Spot Conlon? What would I get then, huh?" He countered.
"Lynched probably."
"Exactly, I like my body in one piece thank you."
This time Spot bit his tongue to keep from answering that statement with something like, 'I do too,' and just smiled while shaking his head.
It was then that the younger Manhattan boys began crowding around Jack again, probably looking more stories and words uttered from there hero. Jack let himself be led away, but only after mouthing, 'We'll talk later', to Spot and knowing from his nod of agreement that Spot had seen that.
Burn and Spot left the lodging house soon after, by themselves this time, and headed back in the direction of Brooklyn. Burn had a slightly misunderstood look on his face while Spot was trying to contain himself from smiling so hard his face might break. It was Burn who's voice gaped through the cool night air that was swirling all around the pair.
"I'se didn' know youse an' Kelly were suppos' ta be such good friends."
Spot glanced out of the corner of his eyes at him. "Yeah, wese was good friend. I'se figured everyone knew dat."
"Nah. . .wese t'ought you 'ated each udderh or somethin," the newsie shrugged his shoulders, kicking a small stone with his foot, his head bent down.
"It's impossible, or at least damn hard too, to hate Jack Kelly. If youse knew 'im, youse would understand dat."
"Maybe. . . but I'se. . .HEARD things about 'im dat, um, make me uncomfortable," Burn stumbled over his words. His eyes not meeting Spot's or staying focused on anything for that matter.
"What kind of. . .things?" Spot asked cautiously.
"It's nuthin, ferget I'se said anything." The words came out mumbled and Burn stuffed his hands in his pockets.
"Don' tell me ta ferget it. Dis is me close friend wese are talking about an' I'se want ta know if an' what someone' been sayin about 'im."
"Jist little things, ya know? Dat, uh, dat 'e doesn' like goils. An' dat 'e tried ta put da moves on ya once."
Spot was glad the coolness of the air didn't immediately turn heated from the anger that rose in his body, coming out of his eyes and ears. So rumors hadn't really ended, at least not totally. That bothered him. Who after all this time would still be spreading them? Another leader? An old enemy? Who? He reached out and roughly turned Burn to face him, letting his anger shine through. Blazing. Burn's eyes widened in fear and he flinched from Spot's touch.
"Don' youse believe any of dat shit, ya hear me? It ain't true. Not a word of it. I'se 'ave known Jack fer ten years now an' 'e ain't nevah, 'put da moves' on me, ya hear? Dat understood?"
Burn nodded violently.
"Good," He let go of his arm and turned back in the direction they were heading. "An' youse tell anyone else who believes dat stuff da same thing. I'se don' want no newsies of mine disrespecting Jack. Especially not after everything 'e did wit da strike ta help you kids."
Again Burn only nodded, his eyes still wide. He was shook up and didn't say a thing the rest of the way.
Spot thought what the next day could possibly bring. He had to talk to Jack, that much was for certain. Find out what he had been doing for the past eight years of his life in the old west. Find out if he had a job, friends and what not down there. But most of all, find out if he had a family. Wife, kids, girlfriend. . .anything. Or if he was like Spot. Alone. Maybe a fling or two, but nothing beyond a little comfort. Comfort that didn't mean anything when all you could do the whole time was imagine someone else's face.
His eyes fluttered closed as he thought of Jack. He was back for good. And staying, if only temporally, at the Manhattan lodging house. By tomorrow every newsie in New York would know he was back and would be asking about him. Alone time would be hard to buy, but since he was Spot Conlon, he figured he could pull it off with relative ease. All he wanted to do was talk to him.
Well, that wasn't true. He wanted to do much more than that, but who knew how the tides may have changed for Jack in eight years. He might not have thought of Spot at all.
Spot squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his comforter closer to his body. Sinking into the safe feel of them. His thoughts drifted from negative to positive. Imagining that Jack may be doing the same thing over the bridge at that same moment. That too, gave him a sense of comfort. Tomorrow would be a good day. How did he know? Because his prayers had been answered. And Jack had kept his promise.
He was back.
For good.
And what could possibly be bad about that?