Chapter 1: Bother Brooklyn Day

"You're in the pape, Spot," Jack Kelly announced, slamming the last of the morning edition into his friend's hands and sticking his own into his pockets. "Check it out." The heat of August had driven the seventeen year old to forgo his usual vest and cowboy hat ensemble in favour of an undershirt and trousers.

The friend, a smallish boy who referred to himself as Spot Conlon, was taken aback, something that happened rarely. "Whoa, I ain't seen this," he said. He started rifling through the paper the older boy had brought. Thought I'd read the whole thing. Must've missed it.

"Right there on page eight, 'Mrs. Margaret Conlon Searching For Son Patrick. Small for fourteen, light blue eyes and light brown hair, face like an angel. If you see him, send woid to Mrs. Margaret Conlon, his mother.' " Jack read. "The address is someplace near the Park. Never figured you for respectable, Brooklyn."

They put an article in the paper. They must really want me back.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," said Spot. "You came all the way from Manhattan just to show me this?"

"Figured it was funny," Jack answered. "You ain't exactly angelic, though..."

"And my name's not Patrick," Spot finished for him. Not anymore anyway. "And that's all we're gonna hear about the matter." He placed a hand on the gold-topped cane stuck through the end of his suspenders as if making sure it was still there.

Well, no sense cryin' over it. Not likely anyone'll even see it, tucked in the back like it is. And there's tons of kids my age with brown hair and blue eyes.

Spot's dismissal ended the conversation, and Jack Kelly turned around to go back to Manhattan.

Standing in front of a four-story brownstone, Spot wondered, for the fourth time that afternoon, what he was doing in Manhattan. He had responsibilities back on the other side of the bridge after all. The leader of the Brooklyn newsies can't just up and leave whenever he feels like it.

Wonder if they know I'm out here... Maybe I should ring the bell, just for kicks.

"Hey Brooklyn, what's that key you got around your neck?"

Spot turned around, exasperated. Bad enough that he couldn't get that article and all it entailed out of his mind, but now this...

"What is this, Bother Brooklyn Day?" he asked the small person in front of him. God, what was this kid's name? David's kid brother... Les, that was it.

"No," Les said, shrinking back a bit. "I-it's just I've been wondering about it ever since I first saw you, and Snipeshooter said I should go ahead an' ask."

"Well, you tell Snipeshooter that he can mind his own damn business."

"Are you angry cuz of that article on page eight?"

Am I the only person in New York who didn't see this thing? "No, I ain't angry about no article on page eight, so cheese it."

Les "cheesed it" as fast as he could, running off towards downtown. Spot was used to people being scared of him. The name Spot Conlon was a big one among newsies, mostly out of fear. One of the biggest things about fighting your way to the top: everybody knows you.

Damn key. Why can't I just throw it away.

Cuz Dad made it special, just in case you ever decided to come back.

Spot wandered over to Greeley Square, absently fingering the object of Les' questioning, a moderately-sized metal key on a shoe string around his neck. He'd gotten it from his brother the day after he'd left home, along with an ignored plea to "come back for pie sometimes".

Shouldn't have bothered going to the schoolyard that day. Don't quite understand why I did.

Horace Greeley's statue looked serenely over its domain, a lively little park with a few trees and benches. The park doubled as a hang-out for the members of the Manhattan newsies union, now celebrating one month of existence. One or two members of said organization waved to Spot as he wandered the tiny area.

"Hey Patrick, you goin' home to Park Avenue?" Mush shouted, running up. He laughed at his own joke and thumped Spot on the back.

Spot's reply was to mutter "You wish," at the joker and spin around, marching back towards the bridge and his own territory.

Back in Brooklyn, Spot searched out his second-in-command, an eccentric redheaded boy referred to as Whistler, due to his habit of whistling almost constantly. Whistler was also known for his affinity for the color green, and for telling stories about fairies and magic to whoever would listen.

Spot found him near the docks, surrounded by a group of youngsters, none of them older than ten. He was telling them a story.

"So then, the boy said 'How will I find the spot again?'" Whistler said, drawing pictures in the air with his hands. "And the fairy said 'Tell you what, I'll let you tie a ribbon around this here stalk, so you'll know which 'tis.' So the boy tied a ribbon 'round the stalk with the gold under it, and went for a shovel. But when he got back, he saw that the fairy had tied ribbons 'round every single stalk in the field, and disappeared." Whistler's audience clapped politely, then quieted as the older boy waved his hand. "So if you ever meet a fairy," he concluded with a grin. "Make sure you keep it with you while you're goin' for the shovel."

Spot shook his head, clearing it. He'd been so entranced by the story that he'd forgotten all about his current difficulties. Whistler's stories did that sometimes, he'd noticed, though the euphoria never lasted long. Dodging the dispersing crowd, he went up to the storyteller.

"Hey Whistler, anything happen while I was gone?" he asked.

"Nothin' worth talkin' about," Whistler replied. He took off his cap and ran his fingers through the long red mop that fell out of it. "There was some talk of knockin' you out and takin' you over to one Margaret Conlon of Park Avenue, but I put a stop to it. Pointed out that you were more devil than angel, so the description couldn't fit."

"Thanks, Wiss." Spot could never be certain whether Whistler was joking or not. Although in this case, he probably was. The head of the Brooklyn Newsies was too well-respected for such uncharitable attempts.

"Just remember what I told you about callin' me 'Wiss', Spot," Whistler pointed out, putting his cap back on and tucking his hair carefully into it. "I seem to recall something about mutiny."

Spot narrowed his eyes. "You wouldn't."

Whistler tilted his head to look at Spot sideways. "You willing to bet on that?" He then proceeded to laugh hysterically as if Spot had suddenly grown an extra head. The more sober of the two shook his head in disgust and started walking away, wondering—not for the first time—why he kept Whistler as second in command.

Because he could beat me to a bloody pulp if he wanted to, and keeping him as second is better than giving up power altogether.

Whistler may have been crazy, but he was also strong, freakishly strong. Spot could never figure out how such a little guy could be so good in a fight. But he was, and so Spot kept him on. Thank whoever was listening that Whistler wasn't interested in anything other than fairies, beer, and the occasional showgirl. The kid didn't even smoke, for cryin' out loud!

But enough about Whistler. This story is about Spot.

Spot meandered through his territory, checking to make sure everything was in order. It was, for the most part, except for a newsboy who was taking a short break to harrass a young flowerseller. Spot put a quick end to the girl's plight by punching the other boy in the face. The justice of Brooklyn was swift.