Char Analisys - Spot Conlon Spot leaned back on the pier, sighting the bottle through his slingshot. A few seconds of consideration later, he released the marble and watched it shatter the green bottle on the dock. He nodded in satisfaction. He was good, real good, and hadn't missed in five years. Not once, no siree. He was Spot Conlon, the most famous and respected newsie in Brooklyn. The leader of the pack. The pack. He looked out over the other gallivanting kids and wished that he could feel proud. He wished that he could really feel like the toughest street rat in New York state. But he couldn't. Not when the point had been driven home forcefully the night before. He shoved his trembling hands into his pockets. Spot Conlon's hands didn't tremble, never shook. It didn't fit his image. It wasn't him. It was, however, the kid he had been last night, the kid who had woken up on passing the old decrepid tenament building on the way back to the lodging house. He had looked up into the light of the window, that night, and seen someone looking back. It had been his house, once. The house where he had quarreled with his father week after week as the money slipped through the drain. The house where his mother had watched in helplessness as Spot and his sister were forced to submit to their father's will. The house that he had left, to forge out a new life with his fists and his wits. The house where he had left his sister, Cindy Conlon, to take care of their mother as best she could. He had tried to convince her to follow him, to run away, but she wouldn't leave their mother. So Steven 'Spot' Conlon left by himself, and spent a year toughing it out on the streets. A year getting beat up until he learned the tricks of fighting back, a year learning the advantages of being short. And then, at the end of that year, learning that making a buck by stealing was not in the least bit preferable to making a buck selling papes. He had got in with the Brooklyn newsies and toughed it out, fighting his way to the top despite his small stature. He was the unofficial leader, now, unofficial only because there wasn't any official way that the newsies could elect a leader. He had been through fire, and won, and now had a rep for being the toughest newsie around. But he had passed his old home, and seen his sister watching the street. He had looked up into his sister's eyes, and she had looked back. And Spot Conlon, the toughest street kid in New Yawk, had turned and ran. Ran from the accusing gaze of his sister, ran from the memories. He had ran, found a quiet alley, and lost control, crying silently all night long. That was what he was afraid of, really. Losing control. He took his hands out of his pockets, saw that they were shaking still, and shoved them back. He couldn't face it. Couldn't face the thought of it. He was *Spot Conlon,* he couldn't lose control. If he did, he would lose everything. He pulled his hands out of his pockets one last time and made a fist, unclenched it. His hands weren't shaking now, he was back under control. A voice in the back of his mind wondered how long that would last.