It was raining outside.  The cold weather hadn't lasted too long, and the newsies were again lingering on the streets, many grateful for the free bath they were receiving.  Outside the Lodging House, younger boys ran around tackling each other, wrestling in the muddy puddles.  Inside the house, Racetrack sat alone in the attic.  For once, he wasn't smoking or even thinking about gambling.  He simply lay flat on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, his hands pillowing his head.  He was so deep in thought that he didn't even hear the footsteps on the floor next to his head.

"Hey, Race."

Racetrack started momentarily, but relaxed when he recognized the red bandanna and floppy brown hair.  "Heya, Cowboy.  What's doin'?"

Jack shrugged lightly and sat down, his lanky body folding up like a newspaper.  "You've been spendin' a lot of time alone up here, Race.  Just thought I'd find out what's goin' on."  He leaned back against the wall.  "That, and I'se not in the mood to get muddy.  I hate showin' up at the Jacobs' dirty."

Racetrack grinned lopsidedly.  "Yeah? Tell me, Jack, how's Sarah?"

A soft look came into Jack's eyes at the mention of Sarah.  "Good.  Real good."

Seeing that he'd get no more out of Jack than that, Race decided to talk about what was really on his mind.  "Jack.  Ya heard the news from Brooklyn?"

"Not much.  Spot's turned his territory into a big military set-up, eh?"

"Yeah.  Boys patrollin' every street when they should be working, Spot holed up in that old warehouse he calls a castle like a king under attack..."

Jack slouched with a sigh.  "Sometimes I worry 'bout Spot, Race.  He's a good guy, a good newsie, but he's like a... a volcano.  More stuff inside than outside, waitin' for the right time to blow, and if he was to blow, he'd take out half the city."

Race had to chuckle slightly at the mental image of an exploding Spot destroying half of New York City, but he quickly grew serious again.  "Jack, this time I really think he's gonna blow."

Remembering Spot's reaction upon seeing him dressed as a scabber months before, Jack said, "He's blown up real good before.  Why would now be different?"

Racetrack nodded at the hole next to Jack's head.  Jack turned his head.  Seeing it, he reached up a hand to feel the break in the plaster.  As he related the story of how that gap had come to be there, Jack's expression grew increasingly perplexed.

"So what, Race? He got angry.  Happens all the time.  You know that.  I know that.  You've seen him with a slingshot."

"Jack, how old do ya think I am?"

Jack blinked.  "Huh? Race, what's that got to do with anythin'?"

Race sighed.  "I'se older than you think, Jack.  I'se small and I got a baby face, which helps me sell papes, but I'se not as young as I look."

"So?"

"I knows things, Jack.  Things about Spot – about where he came from."

Jack looked incredulous.  "You know the mysterious past of our Mr. Spot Conlon?"

"Yeah," Racetrack said, refusing to allow Jack's disbelieving tone to annoy him.  "I've seen him young and vulnerable.  I even know his real name, Jack, and it definitely ain't Conlon neither."

*******************************************************

Spot sat comfortably in his strangely overstuffed chair that he had found in his current hideout.  It wasn't the nicest place; it was an abandoned warehouse, but he'd decorated the largest office with things he and his newsies had managed to filch from just about everywhere: pictures, pillows, candles (some no more than a stub), even lengths of cloth.  The picture from The Sun taken during the strike had a prominent place on the wall.  Spot knew that he wasn't rich, but he was determined to live as much like the king he knew he was as possible.  Every night, he went to sleep on top of those pillows and slept grandly.

He was aware that most of his newsies did not have the same luxury.  Sometimes it didn't bother him – after all, he was their leader and the brains that spoke for all of them.  Why shouldn't he have a nicer place? Other times, though, he brushed off the traces of snobbery that his upbringing had left him with.  Leader or no, he was nothing without those he led.  On those more altruistic days, he would open his warehouse for any homeless, bedless newsie to sleep in (a boon during times of extreme weather), and sometimes his own large room and pillows would be opened to a lucky few (usually those who got there fastest).  Spot knew to reward speed; if he simply opened his room to the sickest or most needy newsies, they would bless him for that night, then curse him the next when they were sleeping in a dirty gutter again.  He truly cared for all of the Brooklyn newsies as one would a family, but he cared equally for the security of his position.  If he wasn't their leader, he was nothing.  If he wasn't on top, he was on the bottom.  There was no in-between.

Patrick was eight, and he was trying to make his father smile by popping up behind his father's desk and making silly faces at him.  It didn't work, and his father sent him fleeing with the yell, "God damn you, boy, out of my office! Out! Out! And stay out!" 

It wasn't as if this were anything new at this point.  His father had become increasingly irritable and increasingly reluctant to acknowledge Patrick's existence as anything but "boy."  These days he never even spoke to Patrick unless it was to chastise him for something.  However, Patrick had always held out the hope that somehow he'd be able to melt his father's heart and make him love him again, like he used to.  Hope faded with each failure, though.  Deep inside, Patrick knew that the indulgent and tough, but doting father was gone forever.  In his place was a stranger, only interested in his business and in creating the heir that Patrick so obviously wasn't. 

He could no longer even go to his mother for unconditional love and support.  Oh, she loved him, of course, but honestly, she wasn't well.  She was overly emotional and sometimes she talked about things that made no sense: children she'd never had, places she'd never been, things she'd never done.  One time, she spent an hour regaling Patrick with the story of her time in China and how she'd successfully fought off a demon with red horns and a large manhood (though thankfully, she was vague on many of the details).  The story had ended with an impromptu exorcism, performed by her, of course.  Patrick tended to blame her mental shakiness on his father's abusive behavior, but it didn't stop him from still wanting his father's love and reassurance.

So as he ran blindly through the halls of his father's warehouse, if he didn't cry, it wasn't for lack of wanting to.  He'd never forgotten, though, that to show weakness to others was to fail.  He still cried when he was alone, but always with an ear out for approaching footsteps.  Though he'd never been caught, Patrick was convinced that if his father ever caught him crying, he'd throw him out on the streets, son or no.

Therefore, he was very careful in his choice of hideouts.  He'd recently found one small room in the warehouse that he'd never seen anyone enter or exit.  Upon closer examination, it turned out to be the room where faulty clothes were put, but as his father ran a very tight ship, there was almost never any cause for anyone to go in there.

Patrick slipped through the door, closing it behind him securely before he sank to his knees and let the sobs come.  I'm too old to cry, I'm too old to cry, I'm too old to cry... But he wasn't really trying to stop.  He hated to admit it, but it felt good.  Every time he cried, it was as if he could wash away everything that was going wrong.

He didn't cry prettily, either.  His mouth twisted, his nose ran, his face turned splotchy in the struggle to keep from being too audible.  He held his knees to his chest, eyes clenched closed, hands white-knuckled, back shaking uncontrollably.  So what if I'm not tall and strong? So what...?

Finally, the cries subsided, and Patrick just rocked himself back and forth, hiccoughing a bit.  He took a deep breath, wiping his now-bloodshot eyes, then glanced up for the first time.

And froze.

There was a boy watching him.  He didn't look like he was going to laugh at the show of frailty he'd just witnessed, but he'd let Patrick cry himself silly and not said a word to alert him to his presence.

Though Patrick was shaky, his hackles went up immediately.  "Who – Who're you? And what're you doing here?"

The boy, who didn't look that much older than himself, held up a half-smoked cigarette in answer.  "Just an employee," he said in answer.  "I'd ask ya the same, but I already know.  You're Ol' Man O'Connell's boy, ain't ya?"

Patrick, though he was still angry, looked curiously at the boy.  "Employee? Father doesn't allow boys under twelve to work here.  He says they're too clumsy and would lose him lots of money."

The boy coughed, running a hand sheepishly through his dark hair.  "'Cept that I'se not under twelve, kid.  I'se fourteen."

"Fourteen!"  That got his attention.  "But... you barely look bigger than me!"

"Yeah."  The boy gave him a small smile, bright teeth in a tan face with serious dark eyes.  "Always been small, but I'se definitely fast.  Watch this."  He stuck his cigarette in his mouth.  Clearly happy for the audience, he produced a deck of cards from a white sleeve as if by magic and shuffled them with dexterous hands before making the deck disappear again.

Patrick looked at him with wide eyes, but then remembered why they were both there in the first place.  "You were there the whole time.  You saw me cry."

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you say something?" Patrick asked angrily.  "Why'd you just let me act like a baby in front of you?"

The boy shrugged.  "Seemed like somethin' ya needed to do, kid.  I'se an orphan, so I seen people cry before, and you looked like you was gonna explode if you didn't get that outta you."

"An orphan?" Patrick looked at the ground.  "So it never mattered to anyone that you're small."

"Why would it matter?" the boy asked in amazement.  "Bein' small's been good to me.  Once this job ends for the day, I go out as a newsie, and I looks young, so I sells a lot of papes.  Lots of people likes it when they think they'se helpin' some poor little boy, but you won't find too many as willin' to give to a fourteen year old boy, unless that boy's got considerable sellin' skills.  And I got skills too."

"You're a newsie?" Patrick was fascinated, his anger at the boy for not revealing himself sooner fading.  He'd never actually met someone of a lower social class before.  His parents had kept him very sheltered.  Whenever he went outside, there were strict rules as to who he could and could not talk to.

"Yeah.  Name's Anthony, but the others all call me Racetrack – That, or Race, for short.."

"Racetrack? What's that mean?"

Race winked.  "You'se too young and rich to know about gamblin', kid.  You'd be... somethin' O'Connell, then?"

"Patrick O'Connell.  But my father doesn't call me that."  Patrick froze in shame.  He hadn't meant to say that last part, but it just slipped out.

Race cocked an eyebrow.  "Oh, yeah? What's your pop call you?"

"Boy."  Patrick hung his head in shame.  Here he was, confiding in a total stranger, a poor stranger, being weak, doing everything his father had told him not to do.

"That's rough, kid."  Racetrack took one last drag on his cigarette, then ground it out on a nearby windowsill.  "Tell ya what.  Next time you need a good cry, if I'se in here, don't worry 'bout it.  I won't make a sound, and you can cry all you need."

"But... I can't! Crying's weak!"  At a look from Race, Patrick said in a lower voice, "Father told me so."

It was clear from the look on Racetrack's face that he didn't agree with Patrick's father, but all he said was, "I'd best be getting' back to work before I'm caught by your Ol' Man, then.  See ya 'round, Spot."

"Spot?" Patrick looked up (not very far) at Racetrack.

Racetrack stopped next to Patrick on his way out the door and touched Patrick's cheek.  "Spot.  You ain't never seen your face in a mirror when you've been cryin', have you?"

With that, he opened the door and slipped out as quietly as Patrick had slipped in.  For his own part, Patrick stood there stock-still, as though he were a statue.  Very slowly, he walked over to the window.  From it, he could see the bustling streets of Brooklyn, but that wasn't what he wanted.  The window was dirty, but not so dirty that he couldn't see a faint reflection of himself, reddened eyes and all.  Haltingly, he reached up a tentative hand to cradle the still-splotchy cheek that the older boy had touched.

Wonderingly, he whispered, "Spot."      

"Spot."

"Yeah?"

Crumbs stood at the entrance to Spot's room, hands clasped formally behind his back.  "It's six o'clock.  The boys is takin' a break for food."

Spot grimaced.  Initially, he'd frowned on breaks for food, but he knew that the newsies would revolt if he didn't give them food.  Though he still didn't like the idea, he knew not to fight it.  It'd been hard enough to convince the boys to give up even part of their selling time to patrol the streets of Brooklyn in search of any trouble that was looking for them.  Eventually, though, they'd agreed, both because they loved Spot and because they'd hated Blue.

"Any problems out there?" he asked finally.

"No.  No sign of Blue."  Crumbs hesitated.

Sensing some reticence, Spot said sharply, "Look at me, Crumbs.  What else?"

Crumbs was clearly uncomfortable, but he finally spoke.  "Well, some of the boys – not many, but some – is sayin' that I never saw Blue, that you made it up."

"What?!"  Spot sprang to his feet, his hand going to the cane that hung from a belt loop like a sword.  "What's all this, Crumbs? Boys is sayin' that I'se a liar?!"

Crumbs sighed.  He was probably the closest thing in Brooklyn Spot had to a friend, and he didn't want to say it, but though he knew that Blue had indeed returned, he thought that Spot had gone 'round the bend on this one.   "Spot, not all the boys love you.  Some of them liked the way things was when Blue was around."

Spot's mouth distorted with anger.  "So bring 'em to me, Crumbs.  Bring those bums to me and I'll soak 'em good and they'll shut those flappin' mouths."

"...And other boys is confused," Crumbs continued, knowing that he was ignoring Spot at his own risk, but also knowing that he had to finish.  "They loves you and they loves Brooklyn, but they don't know why they'se doin' this."

Drawing his cane like a sword, Spot stormed over to Crumbs and shook it in his face.  "They'se doin' this 'cause I told 'em to.  Hear me, Crumbs? I'se the leader here."

"I don't doubt you, Spot," Crumbs said, pushing the cane out of his face.  "But the boys don't know why you just don't go find him and finish Blue yourself.  Like ya did last time."

Abruptly, Spot turned and walked around Crumbs and out the door of the office.  Confused, Crumbs followed him.  Though Crumbs didn't know where Spot was going, Spot chose his path through the large rooms of the warehouse with confidence.  Finally, he halted at one nondescript door.

As Crumbs watched, Spot unscrewed the top of his cane and shook it upside down until a small golden key fell out and hit the floor with a small clang.  Screwing his cane back together tightly, Spot picked up the small key and unlocked the room.  The door swung open creakily as Spot stepped inside.  Crumbs didn't want to follow; it seemed almost as though Spot were stepping onto some sort of hallowed ground.  However, Spot waved him in and he followed, glancing around cautiously.

There didn't seem to be anything special about this room.  It was just a small dusty room.  The only note of interest was that the room appeared not to have been emptied when the warehouse was abandoned, at least four or five years before.  Small bolts of cloth lay neatly in piles all over the room and the remains of many cigarettes littered the floor.

Though Crumbs didn't say anything, the question must have been clear in his eyes when he turned to look at Spot.

"I thinks better in this room," Spot said, almost gruffly.  He turned to stare out the window, keeping his back to Crumbs, but his voice was clear when he spoke.  "The boys is doin' this to protect themselves, Crumbs.  You don't remember Blue, but I do.  He's after me, but he'd be willin' to hurt a couple of my boys to get to me.  I ain't gonna let that happen, Crumbs.  Newsies is family.  An ol' friend taught me that.  You don't need parents when you got your friends guardin' your back.  That's what my oldest friend taught me and that's what my boys is out there doin' right now, even if they don't know it, Crumbs.  They'se guardin' each other's backs.  When Blue shows up – and he will – I'll take him on again, and I'll beat him again.  Maybe give him another scar to match his first one."  Spot turned around and leaned against the windowsill.  His fox-like face was calm.  "Of course I'll beat him, Crumbs.  Of course I will.  But he'll have to come to me.  I don't go crawlin' on my belly, lookin' for him all scared-like.  Spot Conlon doesn't crawl on his belly to no one."

Author's Note: I'm not very good at individual shout-outs, but to those of you who reviewed, thanks so much.  I really do appreciate it.  Not that I'd stop writing if I got no reviews, or any such nonsense, but when all's said and done, it really is nice to know that someone besides yourself is reading it and enjoying it.  So thanks again!

~signpost