Chapta Four

Disclaimer: No, I still don't own Newsies.
The Brooklyn newsies' house was... well, no one really knew what it was. The only word that could describe it was wow.

It wasn't big news that the Manhattan newsies' lodge was cleaner - they had smaller children living with them and the manager was really old - both good reasons to make an attempt to keep it vermin-free and to keep sickness at bay. But the Brooklyn lodge's owner was about forty-something and was drunk 99 percent of the time, so it didn't matter.

"Hey, Spots," he called, as soon as the band marched in. Spot ignored him and kept walking, up a flight of stairs until they reached the bedrooms. Race only got a glance, but the bed sheets were everywhere, there was an odor, and a rat ran across the floor. He gulped down his lunch of oysters with coleslaw, which was coming up.

"Uh, Conlon?" he asked, deciding how to say he didn't want to sleep here. Spot turned around. "We ain't sleepin' here, is we?"

Spot gave him a dark look, and for a minute, it looked like he was offended. But then he smirked. "Even I don't like sleepin' here. Naw, we's got a room faw da staff who neva were."

He climbed another flight of stairs and opened a door, revealing a room with four beds,sheets slightly wrinkledand awaiting their use in vain. A thin layer of dust was beginning to settle on them.

"Be shure ta shake out da sheets, ya don't know who last used 'em, or faw what," he said, and went to close the door.

"Ya said ain't nobody been usin' dis room," protested Mush, sounding whiney. Spot gave a funny grin and opened the door a crack. "Did I say dat?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, it get's its use sometimes..." Spot smiled wickedly, showing all his white teeth, "But nobody eva stayed here faw more den a night. So sleep well."

The door swung shut with a clap, and the three boys sat, staring at each other. They listened to Spot proceeding down the hallway and the stairs, the thump of his feet and the clonk of the walking stick on carpet. Faintly, they heard, "Ay, Joe."

"Ay, Spot."

"Ya know, you an' Trish can't sleep in da staff room tanight. I have guests."

"Really. Where dey from?"

"My guests o' honor, da 'hatten Newsies."

"Is dat so... Well, whateva ya say, sir."

"An' don't ya forget it."

Mush, Race and Jack stared. Race picked a pillow off of a bed and threw it on the floor. "I ain't sleepin' on those," he said, and then decided to make his rest a bit more comfortable. He ripped the sheets off and pulled the mattress onto the floor with him. Mush popped onto the mattress with him, and Jack, 'seizing the night,' shoved Mush's bed and his bed together, making it king-sized. Mush jumped up with a cry, but Race tapped him.

"You wanna sleep here, ya gonna be quiet," he muttered.

And that was how it was.

Spot awoke with a start. With a small grunt, his eyes snapped opened. He looked at the clock on the wall above him, broken, then checked his watch. 3:45. Something must've scared him awake... but what?

The room was dark and echoed softly with the sound of sleeping boys breathing. Night fear gripped at his chest, something that had always been his flaw. Although he'd bet Race a million that no one was in the room aside from the newsies, he was facing the wall and didn't dare turn around.

But there was thing that worried him, yes, worried Spot. Newsies pretty much had ultimate freedom from the job, so the lodging house door was never closed. Most all the guys would be back at three, at most, and sometimes to four on Sundays, but it was open to anyone. Anyone could get in and attack him while he was sleeping, if they desired, and he wouldn't be able to do anything.

Darkness surrounded him, and his other senses were at their peak. His hearing, especially. Anything out of the ordinary sent him into a panic. And still, he would not turn over.

The breathing of his comrades around him eased him a bit. It was relaxed, and they were all probably dreaming about their girlfriends in Harlem or winning a hundred dollars or other luxuries they'd never have. Spot calmed himself, trying to match his breathing with Zippy, who slept on the bunk on top of him.

Creak.

His eyes snapped open again, a knot of fear and panic tying itself up in his chest. He could imagine one of the Delancey brothers standing over him, holding that same rusty knife that had almost killed Racetrack, ready to plunge it into his chest... And his hand gently ran over his walking stick, which he kept besides him 24/7.

'Relax yaself, Brooklyn,' he thought, 'Old dumps like this tend ta creak 'cause they're so old. It ain't nuttin' else.'

If he died tonight, he'd die with no regrets - his friends would be safe, hidden away in the staff room only Brooklyn knew about, and his fellow newsies would avenge him... wouldn't they?

There was no more noises, so, after a lot of self-pep-talk, the Irish / Italian / Romanian mix mustered up the strength to grab his walking stick and spin around, facing the darkness.

Nothing was there.