Ghosts of the Refuge - A Newsies Prequel

Chapter One

February 1899

Spot Conlon was hutched over, trying to shoot his marble. Around him was a crowd of Manhattan newsies, cheering his every move. When the marble left his fingers, he hit the other player's shooter and won. Triumphantly, he pumped his fists in the air, excited to receive his spoils.

"Thanks for the marbles, Pie-Eater," he jeered, filling his pockets with his new marbles.

"I told you," one of the newsies told Pie-Eater, "never play for keeps with Spot. He always wins."

"Not always," Spot laughed, correcting the boy, "most of the time."

Spot pushed through the crowd, and headed back towards the Brooklyn bridge. He ran through alleyways and sped past pedestrians until he came to the Bridge. He waved at some of his newsies and made his way to the water tower. It was the headquarters of the Brooklyn newsies. Even though he was only second in command, Spot was well respected by his gang of newsies. The leader of the gang was his best friend, Patch Snyder.

Spot crawled up the ladder to Patch, her long brown hair flowed in the wind behind her. She was looking down on the busy borough with proud eyes. This was Brooklyn, her home and friends were here. Spot spit in his hand as Patch turned around and did the same, shaking his hand. This showed that they trusted each other. As the leaders of the borough, they had to.

Patch sat at the edge of the platform, and allowed her feet to hang over the edge. She looked down at Spot, who was slightly shorter than she was. "Who'd you clean out today," she asked. 

"New kid in Manhattan," Spot grinned, reliving the final winning moments, "he was warned, but didn't listen."

"They never do," Patch laughed, as he showed her his spoils. She moved the marbles across her hand, admiring them. 

Every chance he got, Spot always played marbles with the other newsies. To him, being a newsie always came in second. Patch, on the other hand, sold as many papers as she could; both to support herself and Spot, but to care for some of the younger boys in the Brooklyn ranks. To help her achieve this goal, she set up a newspaper stand in Prospect Park. Even though Spot invested a lot of his time in marbles, he always made sure to be close by in case Patch needed him. And with his reputation, he was a valuable asset to the team. 

"How many papes did we sell today?" Spot asked, sitting next to Patch. He had helped get everything ready that morning, but left when he remembered he promised some of the boys in Manhattan a marble game. 

"Socks and I sold around two-hundred fifty." She smiled, "I lost count after the first hundred."

"Good, good," Spot said, and then was more quiet. "I'm going to be sticking around the park tomorrow. Some of the boys in Manhattan told me that Snyder is on the prowl."

Patch turned white. Warden Snyder of the refuge was her father. She gulped, trying to remember the last time she saw him all those years ago, long before she changed her name to Patch. Of course, Spot knew all about her previous life. Memories of her time at the refuge filled her head, and her broken promise to her best friend tore at her. 

She turned to Spot, "Do you know why?" 

Spot shared what Boots and Racetrack had told him, "I guess some kid escaped right after Governor Roosevelt visited. Made Snyder look bad." 

Patch knew her father, "He hates that." She frowned, "I wouldn't be surprised if he came to Brooklyn for that unlucky kid." 

"That's why I'm sticking around tomorrow," Spot told her. "I know you can take care of yourself, but I'll be there in case he comes sniffing around the park." 

"Is it Kelly?" she asked. Maybe Jack had escaped again.

Spot stared at her with a frown, "Probably. Don't worry about it, Patch. He wouldn't dare come to Brooklyn knowing that your father would follow him."

"I hope your right, Spot," she tried to sound brave, but knowing their history, she knew Jack would turn up.