Davey, Jack, Boots and I were approaching the docks on the Brooklyn harbor. As we were walking to where I knew Spot would be, we were stopped by a Brooklyn newsie.
"Going somewhere, Kelly?" He asked, not speaking to either me or Jack in particular.
Jack shoved past him, annoyed, and headed further down the dock. The three of us followed close behind him.
"Well, if it ain't Jack be nimble, Jack be quick." I heard a familiar voice tease. Looking over, I saw Spot sitting on top of his makeshift throne; a tall stack of wooden crates.
"I see you moved up in the world, Spot." Jack said as he stopped at the bottom of the crates. "Got a river view and everything."
Spot looked down at my brother before swinging his legs over the edge of the crates, climbing down the ladder. Once his feet touched the ground, he looked right at my brother, cane in hand.
Suddenly, the two smiled slightly at one another before they both spit shake. Once they pulled back, the Brooklynite pulled me into a side hug, which I returned.
"Heya Boots." Spot said, putting his cane in his belt. "How's it rollin'?"
Boots stuck out his hand towards Spot, small black pebbles resting in his palm. "I got a couple of real good shooters here."
Spot took one of the pebbles before taking out his slingshot, aiming it towards a bottle sitting across the doc. "Yeah. So Jacky-boy, I've been hearing things from little boidies. Things from Harlem, Queens." He released the stone and it flew across the doc, shattering the bottle. He smirked, looking back at Jack. "All over. They been chirpin' in my ear. Jacky-boy's newsies is playin like they're going on strike."
Jack nodded. "Yeah, well we are."
"We're not playing." Davey spoke up, making me mentally face palm. "We are going on strike."
"Oh yeah? Yeah?" Spot teased. "What is this, Kellys? Some kind of walking mouth?"
"Yeah, is a mouth." I said. "A mouth with a brain, and if you got half of one, you'll listen to what he's got to say."
Spot shot me a look before sighing and turning his back to us. He went over to a crate, facing us again as he sat down, crossing his legs and folding his arms.
David took this as a time to speak. "Well, we started the strike, but we can't do it alone. So we're talking to newsies all around the city."
"Yeah, so they told me. But what'd they tell you?" The Brooklynite asked.
"They're waiting to see what Spot Conlon is doing, you're the key. That Spot Conlon is the most respected and famous newsies in all of New York, and probably everywhere else. And if Spot Conlon joins the strike, then they will join and we'll be unstoppable. So you gotta join, I mean...we'll, you gotta!"
"You're right, Pockets; brains. But I got brains too, and not just half a one. How do I know you punks won't run the first time some goon comes at ya with a club?" Spot asked, looking over at us with a serious look. He stood and walked over, pulling his cane out of his belt, pointing it at Jack. "How do I know you got what it takes to win?"
"Cause I'm telling you, Spot." I said.
"That's not good enough, Pockets. You gotta show me."
Word Count: 573
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𝚁𝚄𝙽𝙰𝚆𝙰𝚈 ° racetrack higgins
Fanficrun·a·way /ˈrənəˌwā/ noun a person who has run away, especially from their family or an institution {Racetrack Higgins x OC} {Formerly called "The Unknown Sister"}