Chapter 2: Patrick

Mrs. Margaret Conlon woke early. She had to, if she wanted to make breakfast for her family and still be on time to catch the newsies on their way to the newspaper office, checking each face to see if one of them was her son Patrick, as she had done every morning for five years.

"Mama?" came a small, timid voice from the other room. A girl of about five or so came out into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes with one hand and clutching a rag doll with the other. "Mama? Can I come with you to look for Patrick today?"

Mrs. Conlon put the pot she'd been holding down on the black cast iron stove and considered the request. Emily had never met Patrick, having been born a few months after the boy ran away from home. She had been more or less raised by Michael, her older brother by fourteen years, as her mother spent every waking minute not providing for her family out in the streets looking for her missing child.

"I suppose I don't see why not," Mrs. Conlon replied. Emily's face broke into a bright smile. "But only for a little while, and you have to wear your good coat. You don't want to look messy for your first meeting with your older brother." The smile dimmed a bit, but stayed in place as Emily rushed forward to hug her mother's knees.

"Perhaps you'll be my good luck charm and we'll find him together."

A little later in the morning, Spot was trying desperately to sell papers with the headline "Drought Continues in the Southwest". It wasn't going well, and he was thinking about turning in for the day when Whistler showed up. He was empty handed.

"And just what did you do with your papes, Whistler?" Spot asked, somewhat exasperated that Whistler had sold out before him.

"Sold 'em," the redhead said with a grin. "Made up some crazy shit about fairies in Central Park, then told 'em to pay extra for the 'special edition' pape that didn't have the story." The grin widened as he pulled out a silver fifty cent piece. "Bunch of 'em fell for it, too."

Spot gaped at the fifty cent piece and wondered at Whistler's luck and ingenuity. This kid, you'd think he was some kind of psychic or somethin', he thought to himself.

"You didn't come here just to show off, did you?" Spot asked.

Whistler shook his head, a few locks of hair escaping from his cap and tumbling down his back. "Nope, came to tell ya that there's some dame askin' for a kid named Patrick. She's up the street, waitin'." His face was suddenly serious. "It's your mum, Spot. You look just like her. She's got a little kid with her—"

But Spot was gone.

"Eh, figured he'd be interested," Whistler said, shaking his hair out and replacing his cap. No sense trying to pretend the stuff wasn't there, after all.

Spot literally flew down the street, dropping a few of his papers in the process. He wasn't sure why he was in such a hurry to see the woman he'd run away from five years before, but for some reason, it had suddenly become very important. So important, in fact, that he couldn't just run up and crash into her like he was about to do if he kept running.

He skidded to a stop, looking around to make sure no one had seen him almost fall over, straightening his papers. There she was, a few yards away, looking almost exactly the same as she had when she'd kissed him goodnight for the last time, not realizing he'd be gone in the morning. But there was something different.

Wait a minnit, who's the kid?

Having bolted when Whistler mentioned his mother, Spot hadn't heard the other boy mention the small child with her. The "kid" was a girl, about five years old, wearing a dainty little pink coat that—by the way she was fidgeting—must have been horribly uncomfortable. Spot watched as she waited somewhat impatiently for her mother to finish talking to a friend, wondering why she looked so familiar. Then it hit.

Dammit Spot, are you fergettin' why you ran away in the first place?

Because he'd been about to be replaced. By a new kid. A baby.

Suddenly he didn't want to talk to his mother as much.

"She sure does look like you, eh?" came a voice from behind him. He turned to see Whistler, calmly standing two feet away. Spot hadn't even heard the other boy coming.

"Dammit, Wiss," he said, recovering from the shock. "You know I hate it when you sneaks up on me."

"Just like I hate it when you call me 'Wiss'. What goes around comes around, y'know," Whistler said with his usual grin. "You really oughtta talk to her. Give her a free pape or somethin'."

Now there was an idea. He was a newsboy, wasn't he?

Spot ducked into a nearby alleyway and smudged some dirt on his face, then pulled his cap low over his eyes. Thus disguised, he went up to his mother.

"Buy a pape, ma'am?" he said, pitching his voice higher to sound younger.

Mrs. Conlon had grown tired of waiting. The young man with the green cap had disappeared, promising to bring Patrick to her, but thus far he hadn't reappeared.

"Buy a pape, ma'am?" It was a newsboy, dirtier than most, holding a newspaper out to her.

"No thank you, I'm waiting for someone," Mrs. Conlon replied. Hold on a moment. I know that voice. She took a closer look at the newsboy's face, mentally stripping away the grime.

"Patrick?"

The boy looked terrified, then dropped his papers and ran.