Judging by the number of stale rolls the other boys snuck to Jack while he was imprisoned, he stayed in confinement for eight days after that first aching night. The only light that entered the room was the tiny shaft that filtered between the bars from the corridor outside. So when at last the door was thrown open and Jack was unceremoniously hustled from his cell, even the dim light of late afternoon was nearly blinding.

"Francis Sullivan?" said the worker in an uninterested grunt.

"No. The name's Jack." He was given a cuff for this, a stinging blow to the right cheekbone.

"Don't give me lip, boy, or you're going in for another two weeks." Jack, in the interest of self-preservation, shut up. The worker made a little mark on his clipboard, then took Jack roughly by the shoulder and led him up the hallway towards the rooming houses. On the way, Jack turned his head slightly to look in to Spot Conlon's cell. Spot, surprisingly, was standing looking at Jack through the bars- and as he passed, Conlon gave him a thumbs up and a little wink through one bruised eye.

That was the last time Jack saw Spot for at least a month, the longest solitary imprisonment that most Refugers could remember. Not without reason, either... for according to the wide-eyed reports given to Jack by the boys in his house, Spot had in fact killed Goliath. At least, no one had seen the hulking menace since the breakfast fight a week before. Stomp was still around, but he spoke in blurred words now, and his nose didn't look like it would grow back any time soon.

Spot's absence only fed the legends surrounding his name. First it was "He's just a little guy, but he saved Jack in a fight, and he's got this slingshot that he's just amazin' with..." Next, "He's not so little as people tell you. He can knock down about ten guys at once and walk away without a scratch." Then "His face is covered with scars from when he was a junior prize fighter, and he used to have a gang of thieves who stole millions of dollars in diamonds, but then he killed a guy who threatened to go to the police. That's how come he's here."

Jack listened to the stories with amusement, but did little to stop them. If Conlon had a reputation when he came out, it would make him all the more valuable as a friend. And as the weeks of Spot's imprisonment wore on, Jack found himself half-believing the wild tales. Against the stories of Spot the rakishly defiant anti-hero, the picture of Spot the small, thin, cocky boy began to fade just a little bit.

So it was almost a surprise when, just as the house was settling down for the night, a pale little figure in exceedingly dirty clothes hobbled in. Jack put down the shirt he'd been trying to mend and gazed at the boy, puzzled.

"What do you want?"

The boy broke in to a smirk. "I was bettin' myself you wouldn't recognize me. Dirt's the best disguise of all."

"Spot???"

"Da same." Spot walked over to Jack and spit in one palm, then held it out. Jack did the same, and shook his friend's hand with a happy grin spreading over his face.

"Welcome back, Conlon."

The boys, who had fallen silent at the mention of the name of Spot Conlon, now surged forward en masse, their excited questions and exclamations creating a rumble of talk. But above it all rose Spot's voice, loud and complaining.

"Ain't you got nothin' to eat for a returnin' hero?"