**Disclaimer: You all know the drill. Disney characters = not mine. Yet.**
It was the middle of the afternoon, and though it was only late September, winter had come early. For many young people, this was the coldest day they could remember, even in New York, where surprising weather was the norm. While some newsies were still braving the cold twilight outside, more still were stumbling in from the outside, shivering in their patched clothes. "Forget today's money, I'll keep me fingers!" was the cry of the day.
It was fair to say that had this day occurred a year before, the newsies would still be out on the emptying streets, desperate to sell their last papers. Now, however, things had changed. Since they were no longer required to eat their losses, thanks to the Cowboy and those who had stood with him, it wasn't as much of a loss if they came in from the cold with a couple of papers still clutched in their fingers.
In the attic of the Lodging House, four newsies sat, intent on their business, as a single candle flickered on the floor in between them. Though they enjoyed the company of their fellow newsies, a good game of poker just wasn't as much fun with lots of people staring down their every move.
On the side closest to the window, a slender newsie looked up from the cards he'd been dealt and stared, stone-faced at his three companions. The newsie sitting opposite him was short but strong, with an olive complexion, high cheekbones, black hair, and an equally serious expression on his face. He was Racetrack, and he was the only threat to the slender newsie's dominance of the game. The other two were just in it for fun. Mush, with tightly curled dark hair, tanned skin, and big brown eyes, and Kid Blink, with blond hair, blue eyes, an ever-present smile, and a large eyepatch dominating his face, were lots of fun to have around, but they were terrible poker players. Everything they felt showed clearly in their eyes, so they couldn't hold back the looks of triumph when they got a good hand or their disappointment when the hand they were dealt was bad. And the slender newsie was taking full advantage of that, and cleaning them out as best he could -- Or he would be, if not for Racetrack's skills.
"Spot?" Racetrack said. The slender newsie looked at him cooly. "Your turn."
Spot's thin fingers tapped the ground impatiently as he swept his gaze over the three of them, considering what to do next. Eventually, he casually tossed a couple of coins into the pot and pushed his longish light brown hair out of his eyes. "See you and raise you, Race."
Mush dropped out pretty quickly, and Blink followed a round later. It was down to just Racetrack and Spot, and they were holding no prisoners. As Spot and Race kept dropping money into the middle of their circle, the mood became increasingly grim and determined. Though none of the other three would have admitted it, it was clear that the decreasing good cheer was entirely due to Spot. They were both playing to win, but Racetrack was his usual casual, unflappable self. The intensity that was radiating from Spot, though, could have burned a hole in the cards. It was always there in him, barely beneath the surface, even at the best of times. On the rare occasions that Spot was in a genuinely good mood, even those newsies who considered him a friend were uneasy around him. If they could have described it, they would have said that being around Spot was like walking on a wall only inches wide, knowing that if you slipped, it was a long way to the ground.
Not wanting to distract the two who were still playing, Mush whispered to Blink, "Did you see that lady again this mornin'?"
"Yeah," Blink whispered back. "'s the third time she's come 'round this week. Ya'd think she'd've given up by now."
"That who'd've given up by now, Blink?" Race asked, his eyes still trained on his cards.
"The lady looking for her son," Blink answered, still speaking quietly so as not to distract Spot. "She's been hangin' round Manhattan for months now."
"So? What's the big deal?" Spot sneered slightly. "There's plenty of folks lookin' for their long-lost baby. What makes this one special?"
Mush shrugged slightly, uncomfortable with having attracted Spot's attention. "Well... I s'pose it's that she keeps comin' back. I feel bad." At a raised eyebrow from Spot, Mush quickly amended: "She always looks so sad. It makes me wanna help her."
Spot slammed his cards face down on the ground and stared at Mush. "You don't never help her, y'hear me, Mush!? Ye're too soft, too soft, Mushy. It's us against them, don't you know that?"
While the other two were still looking startled at Spot's sudden outburst, Race spoke calmly. "Relax, Spot. Nobody's helping no one."
Spot either didn't hear him, or pretended not to. "How long you been a newsie, Mush? How long? Those adults -- they don't wanna help us, they wanna put us in refuges, prisons, they wanna gouge every last penny that we earn sellin' papes with our blood and our sweat. They don't help us and we don't help them, got that?"
Though Mush's brown eyes were full of hurt, he spoke bravely, "Adults is people too, Spot. When that lady walks around cryin' for her Patrick, it jes' breaks my heart." Though Spot barely reacted, the way that his irises contracted and his fingers clenched slightly did not go unnoted by Race, who pulled a cigar out of his pocket and sagely lit it on the candle sitting between them all.
"Did you say," Spot said a bit too calmly, "Patrick?" At the answering nod, he took a deep breath through his nose and stared at his facedown cards.
"What would it hurt," Racetrack asked around his cigar, "to help this lady?" He stared carefully at Spot."
"I can't believe what I'm hearin'," Spot said angrily in return. "Listen, all of you'se, we've got us a lot of runaways in our ranks. This one lady is nothing new, there are lots of mothers out there with missin' children. What if these children don't wanna be found, eh? Should we betray each other and sell each other out to the adult that looks the saddest and pays the highest price? What kind of newsies are you'se?" He snatched up the gold-topped cane that he kept by him at all times like a scepter and waved it around threateningly.
"Sorry, Spot," Blink said quickly. "We didn't mean nothin' by it; we was jes' talking." He wasn't really very sorry, but he knew Spot's temper; they all remembered how he had flown at the Cowboy when they thought that Jack had sold them out, and how it had taken five of his own to hold him back. It was not for nothing that Spot Conlon was the most well-known newsie in the entire city: his cutthroat attitude and willingness to take on anyone, even those stronger than him, had built a reputation for him. His selling skills, while quite good, were not nearly as important. The Cowboy could take that prize, for all Spot cared, as long as he was the leader of the Brooklyn newsies, among the toughest boys in the city. Blink knew all this, and simply sought to calm Spot down before he actually decided to do anything with that cane of his.
Before Spot could answer, Racetrack broke in smoothly. "There, Spot. They'se sorry. Why don't we finish our game?"
Although Spot did put down his cane and pick his cards back up, his concentration was broken, wavering. Poker was the furthest thing from his mind now, and it showed in his face. When at last Racetrack won the hand and raked in the coins triumphantly, Spot stood up, clutching his cane, turned around, and took a big swing at the wall.
"Stupid game," he snarled over the startled yelps of the other three at the solid sound of the cane connecting with the wall. He turned around and looked down at the three, all looking up at him. "Why did I walk all the way over from Brooklyn for this, huh?" He took a deep breath. "Look, it's gettin' late. I gotta be getting back to Brooklyn."
"But it's freezin' out!" Mush said kindly. "Why not stay here tonight? We got extra beds."
"I said," Spot said slowly and clearly, "I gotta be getting back to Brooklyn." Mush started to protest again, but Blink, who was in a better position to see the hole in the wall that Spot's cane had made, shook his head warningly, and Mush subsided.
Grabbing his hat from the floor, Spot jammed it solidly on his head and stalked to the stairs. Kid Blink, Mush, and Racetrack could all hear the sound of his feet stamping down the stairs, around the rooms, and finally, out the front door into the deepening Manhattan night.
Author's Note: Big thanks to B, better known around here as studentnumber24601, for introducing me to the movie, getting me hooked, inspiring me, and beta-ing for me.