The Little Boy With Grown-Up Eyes

The Little Boy With Grown-Up Eyes cont.

CHAPTER TWO: WELL, WELL, WELL

"Oh, dear," I sighed, looking over at Scotty. "I'm terribly sorry."

But to my surprise, he didn't look worried at all. He looked excited. He shifted his weight back and forth, eager for a fight.

The three newsboys crashed over us like a wave falls over a beach. Before I could blink, Scotty's hands were pinned behind his back and I was pressed into the railing of the bridge so hard that the breath was being crushed out of me.

I tried very hard to not think about the fact that the upper part of my back was hanging over thin air- and the East River.

The newsboy who was restraining Scotty looked very large and muscled; if I had to take a guess, I'd say he was quite a few years older than me. The one pinning me against the railing was a little shorter, but still intimidating.

It stood to reason that the arrogant Spot Conlon wouldn't do his dirty work himself, and that was proven when he strolled into the little scene several seconds after we had been neutralized.

"Docker, laying hands on little goilies these days, are we?" said the District Master Workboy of the Brooklyn Union. "What did your mother ever teach you about treatin' ladies with respect?"

I studied him. He was several inches taller than me; but I was of average height. He was all toffee-brown hair and intimidation. I suspected he was around sixteen or seventeen. His suspenders were bright pink- an unusual color. This was a vain one. What scared me the most were his eyes: smoke-colored orbs that were currently boring holes in my own weak blue irises. They pierced right through me, and their color was always shifting from light to dark.

In short, he was a terrifying boy around my age with nothing to lose.

As soon as Mr. Conlon had addressed his question to his henchman, Docker immediately backed away from me. I sucked in the deepest breath I'd ever been forced to take.

Scotty said, "Spot."

Mr. Conlon's penetrating gaze shifted from me to Scotty. He almost smiled. "Well, well, well. If it ain't Scotty Lavelle."

"You may have a bone to pick with me, Spot, but Gabby's just passin' through. Let her go on her way, won't you?"

My heart filled with gratitude, and the use of my Christian name didn't irritate me even in the slightest. Scotty's chivalry was very reassuring. As Mr. Conlon's stare turned back to me, I said in a rush, "Yes. I'm Gabrielle Despereaux, and Mr. Lavelle was only escorting me to Brooklyn."

"Yeah, well, here's the thing, dollface. You wanna get to Brooklyn, you gotta go through me. What do you want here?"

"Do you interrogate every poor soul who steps foot on this bridge?" I retorted, feeling the slightest pang of anger. Maybe a little stronger than that. "I'm going to live in the Brooklyn Newsgirls' Lodging House. Do you have a quarrel with that, or are we free to go?"

Scotty suddenly burst into laughter. "Aw, come on, Spot, she's had enough. We really gotta go."

Mr. Conlon started to laugh, too. Then Docker, then Scotty's restrainer, who let him go without any conflict.

"Spot plays his little game on every single newsie and his girl who goes to Brooklyn," Scotty explained, wiping away tears of mirth.

Mr. Conlon hooted, "It never gets old, does it, Scotty?"

I stood there for a moment, torn between anger and etiquette. Manners dictated that I sweep a gracious curtsy and move on. But manners didn't account for the agonizing terror I had felt during my panic attack, and their "little game" had brought on that attack.