6

Another chapter, I am feeling generous. If you review, I will give you a sticker.

Disclaimer: Disney blah blah blah, not mine, yada yada yada. You get the idea.

That night was the longest Spot had ever endured. He paced the floor of the small cell non-stop for the first two hours. Ten steps to the wall, turn, then ten steps back to the other wall, over and over until Racetrack finally threw a shoe at him. He spent the rest of the night slumped against the wall, face buried in his hands.

No matter how many times his friends tried to reassure him, he couldn't stop worrying about Pocket. Race and Blink told him over and over that David had surely managed to find her and get her away safely, but he ignored them until after a while they gave up.

Spot couldn't shake the images that plagued him – he pictured her locked up, he pictured her lying on the ground, beaten and broken. The few short minutes he didn't spend thinking about Pocket tormented him with visions of Jack being carried away, and fear for the safety of his own boys. None of his newsies were locked up here, but that didn't mean they'd made it back across the bridge.

The rush of relief Spot felt when Denton offered to pay the fines was quickly replaced by panic when he saw that David and Les were alone. He waited impatiently with his friends outside the courthouse, fairly leaping on the boy when he finally came out.

He heard David tell the others that Jack had been sent to the refuge, but that fact barely registered as he grabbed the taller boy by the shirt.

"Where is she?" he demanded. "Where's Pocket?"

The blatant fear on David's face was answer enough.

"I don't know," he admitted softly, watching carefully for Spot's reaction.

The Brooklyn leader clenched his jaw to keep from hitting the other boy.

"What d'ya mean, ya don't know?" he asked slowly, his voice low and menacing. "I told ya to make sure she was safe." He tightened his hold on David's shirt.

"I know! I tried," David pleaded for understanding. "I ran back inside, but I couldn't find her."

Blink and Mush rushed to pull Spot away before he maimed the frightened Jacobs boy.

"You was s'posed ta look out for her!" he shouted, struggling to get free.

"I stayed as long as I could," David squeaked. "I just couldn't find her. There were people running everywhere and I had to leave before the police caught me."

"Ya bettah hope she's alright, Mouth," Spot yelled. "If she ain't, I'se gonna beat the hell outta ya."

He turned his attention to the two boys holding him back. "Let me go," he commanded.

"I mean it, let me go," he repeated when Blink and Mush didn't obey. "I hafta find her."

They dropped his arms and stepped back, watching him carefully, ready to grab him if he went after David again.

The King of Brooklyn had already shifted his attention to other matters. He straightened his clothes, checked to make sure his slingshot and cane were both tucked securely into his belt loops, and took off down the street.

If Spot hadn't been slowed down by the beating he'd taken the night before, they might never have caught him. As it was, Racetrack had to hurl himself at the other boys legs, knocking him into the dust. Spot started swinging, but this time they were ready for him. Blink grabbed his arms, Mush threw himself across Spot's flailing legs, and Racetrack sat on his chest, forcing the furious Brooky to meet his eyes.

"Spot," he said softly, in a tone he'd heard the jockey's at Sheepshead use with skittish horses.

"Spot, listen," he repeated as his friend continued to struggle and swear.

Racetrack swallowed his fear as he stared down into the rage-filled eyes of Spot Conlon, eyes that promised retribution.

"Ya can't go runnin' off," he said.

"Get off me!" Spot screamed. "I gotta go find her!"

"If ya go runnin' off half-cocked, ya might nevah find her," Race reasoned. "We don't even know where she is."

"Ya can't go tearin' through New York lookin' for her," Blink agreed.

Racetrack glared at the other boy, warning him to keep quiet.

"We have ta be smart," the little Italian tried again. "Let's go back to the Lodgin' House. Maybe she went back there. If not, maybe the boys heard somethin'."

Spot's struggles lessened, and the blind fury in his eyes began to fade into cold calculation. Seeing that his words were having an effect, Race continued.

"We can send somebody over to Brooklyn, let 'em know we'se lookin' for her."

Finally the Brooklyn leader went still. He nodded up at Racetrack.

"Fine. I'll go back. But if she ain't there . . ." he trailed off, his meaning clear.

Racetrack stood slowly, motioning to Blink and Mush. The two boys let go of Spot, who scrambled to his feet. For a second, the anger flared in his eyes again and he took a menacing step forward. Race stopped him with a firm hand on his arm.

"We wanna find her too," he reminded. "Fightin' with us is just waistin' time."

Spot didn't answer, just turned and headed toward the Lodging House at a ground eating pace.

He burst through the door, startling the handful of newsies waiting in the common room. They all jumped up, clamoring for news.

"What happened?"

"We saw the bulls get ya!"

"Where's Jack?"

Ignoring them all, Spot surveyed the room. Seeing no sign of Pocket, he took the stairs two at a time to search the bunkroom. He returned almost immediately, alone, drawing curses and groans from the older boys. The other newsies, especially David, were unnerved by the expression of complete panic that transformed the normally stoic leader's face.

"Pocket's missing," he said in reply to the questioning looks directed his way.

"Has anybody seen her?" he asked anxiously, a frantic edge to his voice. "Anybody hear what happened to her?"

The small group shook their heads dumbly. Spot slammed his fist into the wall, ignoring the pain. Knuckles bleeding, he slumped forward, pressing his head to the wall, fighting to gather his wits. It took a moment for him to pull himself together, then he turned once again to face the newsies.

"Boots!" he barked. The little boy jumped forward.

"Go to Brooklyn," Spot ordered. "Maybe she's there. Tell Fiver I'se alright, and find out if all me boys made it home. If she ain't there, tell Fiver to get the boys togetha an' start lookin'."

Boots rushed to do as he was told.

"Come straight back here," Spot reminded him.

He turned to the other boys. "You, you, and both a you'se," he pointed, "go to Harlem and the Bronx, they's the closest. Find out if they know anythin'."

Nobody stopped to question Spot's authority, the steely tone of his voice was enough to send them rushing off to do his bidding. The rest of the boys were eager to help look for Pocket, and he dispatched a few of them to gather information, instructing them to start at Medda's and work outward from there.

Momentarily out of orders to issue, he collapsed weakly into the nearest chair, giving in to his worry. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking as he drew in several long, shuddering breaths.

Racetrack stepped forward to comfort his friend, but a commotion outside stopped him in his tracks. All eyes in the room turned to the door.

"Kelly!" a rough voice called. "You in there?"

Someone pounded the door.

"Open up!" the same voice ordered. "What about Conlon? He in there?"

Spot stood, cane raised, eyes fixed on the door.

"Who's askin'?" he challenged.

"It's Lucky, ya punk. Open the damn door!"

Spot relaxed slightly and nodded at Mush to open the door. The younger boy swore when he looked outside, and Spot stepped closer, cane ready.

The cane hit the floor, a deafening clatter in the sudden silence that had befallen the common room. The Manhattan newsies watched in horror as Lucky entered, bearing the still, pale form of Pocket carefully in his arms.