The sound of a bird chirping at the Brooklyn Lodging House window just before dawn caused Spot to awake, annoyed. He sat up from his bunk and peered at the stupid bird that was making such a raucous. For some time he considered smacking the window to scare it off, but it would wake everyone else in the room up. Although, since he was now the leader of the Brooklyn newsies, they couldn't get mad or hold a grudge.

It was still dark out and he could see the sun starting to rise slowly over by the docks. Spot let out a powerful yawn and rolled his head around. The irritating bird was still there and just as he was bringing his arm up to swat at the window, it flew away. All that noise and his waking up were for nothing. He sympathized for his fellow newsies now; he was put in an extremely bad mood. Not only was he an unpleasant person to be around in a bad mood, but it was known to last all day. He plopped his head back down on the pillow and put his arm over his head, trying to fall back asleep.

Creaking footsteps on the wooden staircase could be heard subtly from far away and Spot's eyes opened again. He just couldn't seem to catch a break! The caretaker, who was reaching his sixties, trudged into the room and proceeded to wake everyone up with shouts of "time to wake up!" and "out of bed!" Occasionally he stopped at a bed and nudged someone out of sleep and back to reality. The boys groaned and grumbled in sleepiness as they reluctantly arose from their beds.

Spot jumped off the top bunk and pulled on his brown suspender pants, letting the straps hang loosely at his sides. He began to make his way toward the sinks, a little more awake now that he got out of bed. It still didn't hide the fact, though, that he was disturbed terribly this morning. Bringing his hand up to his light brown, longish hair, he shook it a little and pushed it away from his forehead. He stopped at one of the sinks and turned on the water. Without testing it too much, he cupped his hands to fill them with water and swiftly brought them to his face. The water was cool and awakening as it ran down his cheeks, and caused a few droplets to tumble down his perfectly chiseled abs. Carelessly, he didn't wipe them off and just patted his face dry.

He finished his regular morning regimen within a few minutes and started to walk downstairs, still buttoning up his navy blue shirt. Bolt, his second-in-command, waited for him at the last step. He leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his chest and his brown hat drooped over his eyes. Spot made the assumption that he was out late last night and was still catching up on some of the sleep that he missed. As he put his feet on the last step he took the hat off Bolt's head and smacked him in the face with it jokingly.

"Rise and shine," Spot told him.

Bolt jerked his head up, revealing a partially swollen black eye on his left.

"Dat looks like it hoit," he pointed out. "What happened?"

"Let's not talk 'bout it," Bolt replied in a groggy voice. Spot wasn't surprised at the shiner on Bolt's face; he was always getting in way over his head. Most likely he was gambling or collecting on a bet that didn't go so well. It was typical for him, though.

They walked out into the crisp morning air ahead of the other newsies. Spot received the normal greetings from people who worked at the docks or outside, and he tipped his hat to them and gave a small wave. Bolt strode next to him, but did not feel inadequate or inferior. He knew he played the role of the sidekick and he knew he could never measure up to the mighty Spot Conlon, who rose to power nearly two years ago when they were fifteen. But as his second-in-command he had a duty of replacing the ruler if anything should ever happen to him; although, with Spot in charge that was highly doubtful.

The distribution office was about a ten minute's walk from the lodging house and it was where the newsies picked up their daily papers to sell. One by one the boys lined up to the distributor and collected their papers. The most experienced and most confident ones usually purchased a hundred to sell, while the younger ones shot around thirty or forty. Spot, of course, was always one of the experienced and confident ones. He had been at this game for almost his whole life.

The headlines that day were a little weak given that the news was slow. It would be a long day of exaggerating and telling lies.

"Who writes dis shit?" Bolt asked while they sat on a bench at the office, reviewing the day's paper. "'Baker's dog responsible for stolen baked goods'? Is dat all we got these days?"

Spot let out an amused laugh, but silently agreed. For the past few weeks nothing rich had made the news and it was starting to take its toll. Headlines were getting worse, and even though they were experts at twisting them, it was still getting more difficult to sell. Spot got up after carrying the papers at his side, his toned and muscular arms flexing to hold the weight. But it certainly wasn't too heavy for him. He said bye to Bolt and made his way toward his usual selling spot for the morning.

With a swagger in his step, Spot strutted along the sidewalks of Brooklyn. He had a determined and slightly pissed off expression, which would not be there on any other day. The combination of the bird this morning and the bad headlines only drove him to sell all of them in a hurry and spend the rest of the day without too much worry. Some girls around his age that were in the street caught sight of the handsome and practically famous seventeen-year old, and began giggling like little school girls. Spot had a way of making anyone of the female gender swoon and fall head over heels for him. Perhaps it was his reputation for being oh-so powerful and courageous, or maybe it was his strikingly good looks that allowed him to get any and every girl he wanted. The downside, though, was that he used his spell to his full advantage and he had cast it upon countless and often meaningless girls in the past.

Soon he was at the corner that he claimed about a year ago and he began to hawk the headlines. First to go was the dumb-ass dog story. With a roll of his eyes and a heavy sigh, he shouted, "Canine criminal prosecuted in robbery scandal!"

Around noon the stack of papers in Spot's arms had reduced dramatically and he was down to his last one. It had taken him longer than usual to sell today and he wasn't too happy about that. He blamed half of this on the journalists' inability to write good articles. Glancing at a dinky little article about dead fish in the river, he quickly thought of something juicy to say. As he was in the process of doing so he noticed a respectable looking businessman in a rush preparing to pass him.

"Killer in the water!" he yelled loudly and impulsively. Luckily, though, the man stopped and bought the paper. Since he was in such a hurry he tossed a dime to Spot, forgetting all about the nine cents as his change. Spot smirked to himself and stuck the coin in his pocket with the rest of his money. His mood had gotten worse through the morning and the extra money didn't make much of an impact, but it was nice to have anyway. He started toward Bolt's spot.

Bolt was finished selling and was sitting on a wooden bench as Spot approached him.

"Was dat not the woist pape you'se eva sold?" Bolt inquired as Spot took a seat next to him.

"It was pretty bad, I'll say," he agreed. He rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed the temples of his forehead. The morning had given him a splitting headache and his head was pounding.

"You come across that dead fish shit? How desperate are they gettin'?"

Spot nodded without saying anything, giving Bolt the cue to end conversation. For a few minutes they sat in quiet as the noisy streets around them sounded and neither of them said a word. Bringing his head back up he broke the silence by asking how his eye felt.

"I'll live," Bolt said with a shrug. It sure wasn't the first time he had been knocked in the face; newsie life was rough.

"You wanna go eat?" Spot asked in response to his apparent stomach growling.

"Shit, yes." Bolt sounded like he had been dying to ask but was too afraid to. No, he wasn't afraid; he was just "being considerate" of his friend's mood. They got up from the bench and proceeded to make their way to the usual restaurant the Brooklyn newsies ate at, Sonny's. It was only a block away, but Spot just wanted to get something in his stomach and it seemed like the walk was taking forever.

"Make any extra money taday?" Bolt asked curiously.

"Lil' bit. You?"

"Some guy gave me a quarta and told me to keep da change," Bolt replied proudly. But a look of annoyance on the leader's face made him shut up quickly.

Not much conversation took place on the way over. But just as they were rounding the corner to their intended street, a group of younger newsies were walking away from the restaurant.

Spot grabbed a ten-year old by the shoulder and stopped him just as he passed. He didn't intend to hurt him, but nothing was going as planned today. "What's goin on?"

The boy's eyes widened as he looked at his leader's face, anxious and scared. "S-Sonny's is closed fer taday," he squeaked.

The grip Spot had on the newsie's shirt tightened. "Why?!" he demanded angrily.

"I don't know!" the boy responded, terrified.

Bolt tried to hold in his laughter. "Lighten up, man," he told Spot. He was always amused at Spot's actions when he was like this.

Spot did so and patted the small boy in his shoulder. As soon as he did, the boy ran like no other back to his friends. "I just want a damn sandwich," he whined.

"Wanna go ta Manhattan for lunch?" suggested Bolt. Occasionally a small group of Brooklyn boys crossed the bridge to go uptown and have lunch with the Manhattan newsies at Tibby's Restaurant.

"I guess," Spot sighed. So they began their journey to the other side of the river.

They walked briskly to the bridge in silence without much speaking. Bolt assumed Spot still had a headache so he didn't want to bother him too much. Once they arrived at the bridge he noticed Spot picked up his pace quite a bit and his blue-gray eyes seemed to turn to a steely, silver color. Their color could send anyone who looked into them sprinting in the other direction. It was no mystery as to why Spot got anxious or touchy around the bridge; everyone knew what happened that night a few years back. It was a sort of unwritten rule not to talk about it. And nobody ever did.