I know it's a bit early, but I've had this plot bunny hopping around for some time. It was almost dead too, but then I happened to hear Gaelic Storm's recording of "The Hills of Connemara" and the bunny revived itself. So here 'tis.

Special thanks to my da for helping me with the technical stuff.

Spot had had a funny feeling about the new boy from the beginning, a strange sensation in his gut that told him in no uncertain terms that here was something that was most definitely not as it seemed. The new boy himself, oddly enough, was (or seemed to be) completely oblivious to the strange looks he was getting.

Topmost on the list was his hair. Sure, most newsies were too busy or too poor to afford regular haircuts, but Whistler seemed to take this to the extreme, bragging that his last haircut had been when he was in the Refuge, nearly two years before. Spot believed it. The flaming locks reached nearly halfway down the boy's back when not tucked up under his ridiculously green hat.

Second was his constant comings and goings at all hours, which drove Old Man Murphy nearly up the wall. To hear Murphy talk, Whistler was wandering around the more dangerous areas of Brooklyn in the dead of night, coming back with mysterious bundles that went directly to a closed-off section of the lodging house basement, never to be seen. A few times, Murphy had even seen the boy lugging an empty barrel, the sort you'd find in an alley behind a bar. Spot knew that the only way into the closed-off section was through a locked door with no keyhole, and put the matter to one side as a case of Old Man Murphy overindulging in his ever-present bottle of whiskey. All the same, it intrigued him, and so he found himself hidden behind some boxes at one in the morning, stifling yawns and checking his watch. He was about to give up and go to bed when he heard the door upstairs open and slam shut.

Wide awake, Spot peeked over the boxes to see Whistler's brown boots making their way down the stairs, one red stocking flopped down around the ankle, its elastic snapped. The King of Brooklyn ducked down as Whistler made his way down the steps, singing under his breath.

"Oh gather up the pots and the old tin pans
The mash, the corn, the barley, and the bran
Run like the divil from the excise man
Keep the smoke from risin', Barney!"

Spot vaguely recognized the song as "The Hills of Connemara", an old Irish song about brewing and hiding illegal liquor. What this could have to do with the mysterious bundle the boy was carrying, Spot had no idea.

The thumping of clumsily made boots passed by Spot's hiding place as Whistler made his way across the basement toward the keyhole-less door. Now was the moment of question. Now was when Spot would find out how the hell Whistler managed to get into the unknown room, since thus far, everything else that Old Man Murphy had said had turned out to be true.

"Almost ready for a party, if all goes well," Whistler said. He shifted the bundle to one side so his left hand was free. The hand was placed over the door handle. For a moment nothing happened, and Spot wondered if Whistler was sleepwalking (and talking and singing, for that matter). Then there was a barely audible click, and Whistler swung the door open with no trouble at all. He was singing "The Hills of Connemara" again, a bit louder than before as he went through the doorway and set the bundle down on a table. Spot quietly got up from behind his boxes and walked over on his stocking feet, having taken his shoes off earlier.

Whistler jumped a bit, for no reason that Spot could see, and whirled around, catching his audience halfway between the boxes and the door.

"What the froggin' hell do you think you're doin'?" Whistler asked very calmly. Too calmly.

"Watchin' out for trouble in my kingdom," Spot informed him, drawing himself up to his full five foot three and three quarters of an inch. "And I think I found it."

Indeed, he'd found something. On the table was the half opened package, which proved to contain some sort of dead flowers. Against the wall were the barrels that Old Man Murphy had mentioned. The rest of the space was taken by a bathtub full of a cloudy pale liquid. Someone had rearranged the plumbing so that the drain fed into the showerhead and the pipe leading up to the tap was dominated by a large cylinder with a hand-crank sticking out of it.

Spot pointed to the setup. "You think you're smart, cookin' that up. I know exactly what it is, and what you're doin'." This was to cover up the fact that Spot hadn't the faintest idea what the bathtub-contraption was, and to possibly trick Whistler into telling him without risking his reputation as the all knowing King of Brooklyn.

The redhead wasn't fooled. "You do, eh?" he said conversationally. He stepped backwards and began turning the hand-crank. There was a gurgle, and a stream of cloudy water came out of the showerhead and into the tub. "Care to elaborate?"

Spot narrowed his eyes, suddenly wishing he'd thought to bring his cane.

Whistler laughed. "Y'obviously don't, so I'll tell ye." He pointed to the tub, still turning the crank with one hand. "This stuff is water and barley malt mixed together. I'm washin' it." Next, he pointed to the barrels along the one wall. "That's the finished product, waitin' for some hops, some time, and some people to drink it." Then to the package on the table. "Those are the hops."

The King of Brooklyn raised an eyebrow. He'd heard of hops, and he'd heard of barley malt. And he knew what Whistler meant when he said "some people to drink it".

"Ye're makin' moonshine," he half-accused.

"I prefer to call it 'tay'," Whistler told him. "Sounds better." He stopped turning the crank and motioned to Spot. "Here, turn this for a bit." Not even checking to see that Spot obeyed, Whistler grabbed the package of hops and went over to the barrels. For lack of anything better to do, Spot began turn the crank as the older boy began to sing "The Hills of Connemara" again.

"When'll this be ready?" Spot asked. Whistler replaced the bung on the last barrel and frowned.

"No more'n a week or so," he said. "Just in time for St. Paddy's Day."

"Thought you said you were Scottish."

"So? Ol' Paddy himself was a Roman. He showed up in Ireland with a bunch of soldiers to put down an uprisin' led by some druids, the priests of the old religion. Y'know how they say that St. Patrick killed all the snakes in Ireland?" Spot nodded. His mother had told him stories about the saints, and Patrick's snake-killing had been among them. "Well, the symbol of the druids was a snake. So Patrick and his Romans killed all the druids, 'cept for the ones that went into hidin'.

"So if you look at it from a sensible point of view, St. Patrick's Day is only celebrated because it's an excuse to drink. And any excuse to drink is a good one by me."