4. Hope floats, hope sinks

'Tread softly because you tread on my dreams'

-Yeats

So that was how Bridget Conlon ended up walking to Brooklyn with David Jacobs, the rudest newsboy in New York, and another short, italiant newsie who chain smoked cigard and claimed his name was Racetrack. Racetrack.

"Your name...is Racetrack?" She clarified, watching the shorter boy take a drag on his cigarette. "Yep." He answered, grinning at her in a very impish manner. "Why?" Bridget asked, genuinely curious. What kind of parent named their child Racetrack? David snorted in amusement, but Bridget ignored him.

Racetrack cleared his throat importantly before beginning. "It's a nickname---on 'a count of I'm a bit of a gambler." David shot him a look, " 'A bit of a gambler'? Like Pulitzer is a but of a tightwad?" Racetrack frowned, annoyed that David had inturrupted his story and continued. "But my real name is Anthony. Anthony Higgens---but since I ran away from home an' all--"

"Do all the newsies run away from home?" Bridget wondered aloud and Racetrack shrugged his shoulders indifferntly, as if it wasn't a big deal to run away from home. "For the most part, yeah. David still lives with his family, but that's generally what the newsies are. Orphans and run-aways."

"A ragged army, without a leader." Bridget supplied quietly, causing David and Race to stare at her. "It was in the article." She said defensively, blushing under their gaze. Race shook his head and shifted the weight of the steamer trunk he and Dave were carrying. What had she packed in this thing, anyway? Rocks? He didn't think dresses weighed this much. "You really Spot's sister?" He asked her, looking skeptical. Spot Conlon with a sister was one thing, but Spot Conlon with a sister that was a naive society dame was a little tough to swallow. Bridget looked confused. "Spot?"

Race rolled his eyes and lit another cigarette. "You wanna field this one, Davy, or should I?" David sighed and he and Race double their pace. The sooner they got to Brooklyn, the sooner this would be over with, and they could meet up with the rest of the gang and relay the tale of Spot's haughty sister to anyone that would believe them. "Spot is Ben, Bridget."

"Spot is..his nickname? Like Racetrack?" Bridget asked, hurrying to keep up with the two newises. Race nodded. "Spot--er, Ben, is the leader of the Brooklyn newsies. Very famous and well-respected guy, your brother." Bridget smiled proudly, as if to say well of course he is, silly. Racetrack felt bad for her. "When was the last time you saw Ben?" David asked, changing the subject.

"Benjamin, come back here right now!"

Nine year old Bridget Conlon was close to tears. It was her birthday and things had been going so well----why did they have to ruin it by fighting? She knew her parents were worried about her brother--lately he had been spending miore and more time with a group of boys that her mother had labeled as 'no good'-- but she didn't see why they couldn't save their arguments until a later date.

Her eleven year old brother, Ben, stalked out of the house and slammed the door hard behind him. Bridget had instinctively run forward to him, but shrank back when she saw the look of black rage on his face.

"Ben-" She began timidly, and he started, as if he hadn't realized she was there. He forced a smile for her and ruffled her sandy locks so like his. "Hey kiddo, how's the birthday girl?" She didn't tell him that the party was boring, and after they'd dumped their presents in front of her the other girls had abandoned her to gossip amongst themselves.

"Why are you and Father fighting?" Ben's smile faded and he turned away from her, which hurt worse than the snub of the other girls at her party. "It's nothing, Bee. Don't worry your pretty little head about it." And because she trusted her brother, she didn't worry.

And then that night he'd come into her room, his voice hushed and anxious but his eyes calm. He had a ruckasack in his hands, and she hadn't understood what that meant. "Ben? What--"

"Shhh." He covered her mouth with his hand and began to speak in a rapid undertone. "Listen to me, Bee. Don't say anything, just listen, alright?" Bee nodded, her eyes huge and frightened.

"I have to go away for a while." Bee opened her mouth to protest before remembering her promise to be quiet. "I can't stay here anymore---if I do, Father's going to send me away to boarding school. And I can't let that happen."

"When will you be back?" She whimpered. Ben smiled sadly and touched her cheek. "I don't know." Tears welled in her eyes, and Ben looked away, as if the sight hurt him to much to watch. "But...who will take care of me?" She asked, a consummate nine year old, she was only concerned about her own well being.

"You're a big girl, Bee. You can take care of yourself now?" She didn't feel very big. She felt small and incapable of grasping the enormity of this situation.

"Who'se going to take care of you?" Ben shrugged, false bravado written on his features. "No one."

"Won't you be lonely?" He shook his head and got to his feet. "Don't worry about me Bee, understand? I'll be fine. And so will you. Just---be the tough kid I know you can be, alright?" Bee nodded, wiping at the tears rolling down her cheeks.

"I'll miss you." She whispered piteously and Ben shut his eyes briefly. "I know. I'll miss you as well." She didn't know if he was lying or not, but she told her fragile eight year old ego that Ben would never lie to her. He went over to her window and pushed it open, looking back at her with those gray eyes that were so dear to her. He looked much older than his eleven years. She committed the proud line of his back to her memory and forced a watery smile to her lips.

Then, he was gone. Her brother, her idol, her favorite person in the world, dissapeared into the night, and never came back.

"Nine years ago." She told them, her eyes distant and fixed on the ground. It was an awkward moment for Racetrack, who, in all his years as a runaway, had never thought about whether or not his leaving home had affected his family. It had been a big family, he'd always assumed they would have been glad to be rid of him. But now he looked at this girl who had Spot's determined look on her face and eight years of worry and saddness etched in her eyes and wondered if anyone in his family had ever missed him that much.

He hoped not.

Bridget had started out the journey with high hopes, but the longer she walked with David and Racetrack, the more she heard about her brother, Spot Conlon, the most powerful, the toughest, the most dangerous newsie in all of New York City, the lower they dropped, and the more she worried that even if she did find her brother, she wouldn't recognize him.