Spot moved through the rest of the day in a numb daze, Striker's
comments still swimming around in his mind. After he sold the last of his
papers, he sat on a bench in the park, absently smoking a cigarette.
Munchkin, who had tagged along with Spot and Gunnar, was playing with the small boy a few feet away. Spot smiled as they threw piles of snow at each other, giggling. His smile quickly faded as his mind wandered back to his argument with Striker.
Stella. Why did he have to mention her name? Not a day went by that she didn't occupy his thoughts, but saying the name aloud made it too real.
"Spot, ey, ya awake?"
Munchkin's voice pulled him back to reality. Taking a calming drag on his cigarette, he nodded.
"I best be on my way. I'm supposed to be meetin Race to go to Sheepshead."
Spot cocked a half smile and spit in his hand, extending it. "Good luck kid. Thanks fer yer help today."
"No problem," Munchkin replied, tousling Gunnar's hair. "See ya kiddo."
"See ya," Gunnar said awkwardly with his strong accent.
"Be careful," Spot called after Munchkin as he started off down the street. Snuffing the butt of his cigarette under his boot, he turned to Gunnar. "Ready to head home?"
Ingrid sat in the lobby of the lodging house, reading a newspaper that had been left behind by one of the boys. A chorus of groans rang out in the room, and Ingrid glanced over her shoulder at a group of newsies playing poker near the stove.
"You cheatin again, Pokey?" Striker asked, throwing in his cards.
"It's all skill my friend." Pokey adjusted his hat over his short golden blonde hair, his blue eyes sparkling.
"Eh, skill my eye," Striker teased as Pokey reached across the table to collect his winnings.
Ingrid smiled, turning back to her newspaper. Midway through one of the articles, the front door opened, sending a rush of cold air into the room. Spot and Gunnar quickly made their way into the room, tracking snowy footprints behind them.
Gunnar launched himself onto Gunnar's lap, covering her with snow. He launched into an excited account of the day's events, his English long forgotten. Leaning against the windowsill, Spot watched Ingrid hold a hushed conversation with her nephew. He glanced up at the other boys in the room, who were staring at the pair curiously. Striker turned his gaze toward Spot, who quickly lowered his head, unwilling to meet striker's eyes.
Instead, he knelt near the chair where Gunnar and Ingrid were talking. "He's a pretty good newsie."
"Well he certainly enjoyed himself," she replied, her cool blue eyes sparkling as Gunnar squirmed off her lap.
Spot smiled genuinely, watching Gunnar study the poker game curiously. Spot was suddenly drawn to glance at Striker, who was staring disapprovingly over his cards.
Ingrid watched as Spot shifted, suddenly seeming rather uncomfortable. "Are you alright?"
Her question had been soft and innocent, but suddenly Spot felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He vaguely felt her hand rest on his shoulder, but he ignored it, standing quickly.
"I've gotta get outta here," he mumbled, backing blindly out onto the street.
Ingrid stared at the open door in silent confusion. His mood had changed so drastically since that morning that she was having trouble keeping up.
Spot wandered aimlessly through the streets of Brooklyn. Raising a cigarette to his mouth with a shaky hand, he tried to regain his composure. What had possessed him to storm out of the lodging house like that? He shook his head, still reeling from Striker's cold gaze. He cursed himself for letting Striker get to him.
Ever since their argument on the streets that afternoon, Spot's confidence had been shaken. He hated that he had begun to doubt himself and more importantly the feelings that he had for Ingrid.
Ingrid. Thinking about her brought a smile to his face. It faded when Striker's words ran through his head. 'How long til history repeats itself?'
Jack had told him once that if you don't learn from your mistakes, you are doomed to repeat them. Spot sighed. Why was it that he never seemed to learn, especially when it came to love?
When his parents died, he vowed never to open his heart to anyone again. For 14 years, that theory had served him well. His icy demeanor had earned him the respect of all the newsies and the leadership of Brooklyn. The revered Spot Conlon.
He scoffed and tossed his cigarette aside. If they only knew.
"Spot, what ya doin standin out in the cold?" Munchkin appeared, his arms wrapped around himself.
"Just gettin a little air, kid. How was the tracks?"
"Got myself enough to buy a few cigars." He produced three cigars, displaying them proudly.
Spot smiled. Munchkin was so much like Race sometimes that it was uncanny. "Come on, it's gettin late. Let's head back before we get locked out."
Munchkin, who had tagged along with Spot and Gunnar, was playing with the small boy a few feet away. Spot smiled as they threw piles of snow at each other, giggling. His smile quickly faded as his mind wandered back to his argument with Striker.
Stella. Why did he have to mention her name? Not a day went by that she didn't occupy his thoughts, but saying the name aloud made it too real.
"Spot, ey, ya awake?"
Munchkin's voice pulled him back to reality. Taking a calming drag on his cigarette, he nodded.
"I best be on my way. I'm supposed to be meetin Race to go to Sheepshead."
Spot cocked a half smile and spit in his hand, extending it. "Good luck kid. Thanks fer yer help today."
"No problem," Munchkin replied, tousling Gunnar's hair. "See ya kiddo."
"See ya," Gunnar said awkwardly with his strong accent.
"Be careful," Spot called after Munchkin as he started off down the street. Snuffing the butt of his cigarette under his boot, he turned to Gunnar. "Ready to head home?"
Ingrid sat in the lobby of the lodging house, reading a newspaper that had been left behind by one of the boys. A chorus of groans rang out in the room, and Ingrid glanced over her shoulder at a group of newsies playing poker near the stove.
"You cheatin again, Pokey?" Striker asked, throwing in his cards.
"It's all skill my friend." Pokey adjusted his hat over his short golden blonde hair, his blue eyes sparkling.
"Eh, skill my eye," Striker teased as Pokey reached across the table to collect his winnings.
Ingrid smiled, turning back to her newspaper. Midway through one of the articles, the front door opened, sending a rush of cold air into the room. Spot and Gunnar quickly made their way into the room, tracking snowy footprints behind them.
Gunnar launched himself onto Gunnar's lap, covering her with snow. He launched into an excited account of the day's events, his English long forgotten. Leaning against the windowsill, Spot watched Ingrid hold a hushed conversation with her nephew. He glanced up at the other boys in the room, who were staring at the pair curiously. Striker turned his gaze toward Spot, who quickly lowered his head, unwilling to meet striker's eyes.
Instead, he knelt near the chair where Gunnar and Ingrid were talking. "He's a pretty good newsie."
"Well he certainly enjoyed himself," she replied, her cool blue eyes sparkling as Gunnar squirmed off her lap.
Spot smiled genuinely, watching Gunnar study the poker game curiously. Spot was suddenly drawn to glance at Striker, who was staring disapprovingly over his cards.
Ingrid watched as Spot shifted, suddenly seeming rather uncomfortable. "Are you alright?"
Her question had been soft and innocent, but suddenly Spot felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He vaguely felt her hand rest on his shoulder, but he ignored it, standing quickly.
"I've gotta get outta here," he mumbled, backing blindly out onto the street.
Ingrid stared at the open door in silent confusion. His mood had changed so drastically since that morning that she was having trouble keeping up.
Spot wandered aimlessly through the streets of Brooklyn. Raising a cigarette to his mouth with a shaky hand, he tried to regain his composure. What had possessed him to storm out of the lodging house like that? He shook his head, still reeling from Striker's cold gaze. He cursed himself for letting Striker get to him.
Ever since their argument on the streets that afternoon, Spot's confidence had been shaken. He hated that he had begun to doubt himself and more importantly the feelings that he had for Ingrid.
Ingrid. Thinking about her brought a smile to his face. It faded when Striker's words ran through his head. 'How long til history repeats itself?'
Jack had told him once that if you don't learn from your mistakes, you are doomed to repeat them. Spot sighed. Why was it that he never seemed to learn, especially when it came to love?
When his parents died, he vowed never to open his heart to anyone again. For 14 years, that theory had served him well. His icy demeanor had earned him the respect of all the newsies and the leadership of Brooklyn. The revered Spot Conlon.
He scoffed and tossed his cigarette aside. If they only knew.
"Spot, what ya doin standin out in the cold?" Munchkin appeared, his arms wrapped around himself.
"Just gettin a little air, kid. How was the tracks?"
"Got myself enough to buy a few cigars." He produced three cigars, displaying them proudly.
Spot smiled. Munchkin was so much like Race sometimes that it was uncanny. "Come on, it's gettin late. Let's head back before we get locked out."