Yep, Call Me Whistler is now a chaptered story! All hail the Garen, for he reigns supreme over life and death for his characters, whether they're actually his or just borrowed.

Eh, ignore me. I'm not really worth the trouble. Just to clear up any confusion, this story takes place about a year before the strike.

Chapter 2

The new boy, who seemingly refered to himself as Whistler, never showed up at the lodging house that night. Spot didn't worry—the boy could obviously look after himself after all, but he did wonder. He resolved to go ask Jack if he knew the kid. Jack knew everybody, just about.

The next morning, directly after getting his papers, Spot set out across the bridge to Manhattan. He was on the bridge itself, right below one of the towers when the sound of someone singing intruded on his thoughts.

"O gu sunndach mi air m' astar,
Falbh gu siubhlach le bheag airtneul,
Do a chomhrag ri Bonaparte,
'S e bha bagairt air Righ Deors'."

He glanced around. The sun was barely up and there was no one in sight. He shook his head in disgust and went on.

"Illean chridheil, bitheamaid sunndach,
Seasaibh onoir ur duthcha,
Fhad's a mhaireas luaidh is fudar,
De rud chuireadh curam oirnn?"

The words were completely unfamiliar, but he recalled hearing the tune somewhere. Something moving above him caught Spot's eye right before someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was the new boy.

"Mornin' to ya," the boy said with a grin. "A bit early to be goin' over to 'Hattan, ennit? Bet the 'Hattan boys won't like you sellin' in their territory."

"Outta my way, fool," Spot snapped, trying to get around the boy.

"I got a name, y'know, an' it en't 'Fool'," the boy said.

"Ya never said what your stupid name was, you jus' said to call ya 'Whistler'."

The boy grinned again. "Right, because I don't want anyone knowin' my real name. Therefore, my name is Whistler. For now, at least."

Spot muttered something highly uncomplementary and tried to shove past. Whistler allowed him, but followed a bit behind. They were on the Manhattan side of the bridge when Spot got tired of it.

"Will you quit followin' me?" he said. "Don't you have someplace to be?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I wanna see where you're goin'."

"None of your business."

"I saved your life, y'know."

"Only because y' almost killed me. Ya said yourself that we're even."

"True," Whistler was forced to admit. "I'll go sell me papes, an' you can go to 'Hattan and get your face punched in. Your Majesty." Satisfied, the redhead turned on the heel of his shabby brown boot and marched back to Brooklyn.

"Weirdo," Spot muttered.

Jack Kelly, recently of Refuge-escaping fame, was the only-seldom-disputed leader of the Manhattan newsies. Jack—or Cowboy, as he was called by his subordinants— may not have been as powerful as the King of Brooklyn, but he had his group of friends who he turned to for back-up and cigarettes, the younger of whom hero-worshipped him for his daring stories about escaping from the Refuge and other places. All in all, he was content.

Until Spot Conlon had shown up.

It had been a little over a year ago, on one of his occasional trips over the bridge, that Jack had first met the young King of Brooklyn. Jack had thought that he'd be meeting with the former king of Brooklyn, a friend of his by the name of Flip, and was quite surprised to find a small, skinny twelve-year-old in the place of his friend. Neither boy had been much impressed with the other, Jack mentally labeling the new king as a pipsqueak, and Spot dismissing the Cowboy as a bragging moron, albeit one who had connections.

So it was with some unpleasantness that Jack looked upon the small form before him.

"An' what brings His Majesty to my humble borough," Jack asked.

"I need information, Jacky-boy," Spot half-snarled. "I got a new kid, calls himself Whistler. Short an' skinny, with long red hair like a girl and sorta greenish eyes. Know anythin' about him?"

Jack chewed on the end of his unlit cigarette. He shook his head. "Nope, not ringin' any bells," he said. "But maybe Medda knows somethin'."

Spot nodded. He strolled over to Irving Hall, selling a few papers along the way. Medda Larkson was in the middle of a performance, so Spot let himself in the back door and sat down to wait. He didn't have to wait long before Medda herself came down the steps from the stage.

"And who are you?" she asked, somewhat upset.

"I'm a friend a' Jack's," Spot lied. "I need information on a new kid that showed up in my territory. He calls himself Whistler, he's short and skinny with red hair, and he sings a lot."

Medda thought for a moment. "I think I know who you're talking about," she said. "Is his hair long?" Spot nodded. "Yes, I know him. By sight, at least. And I heard someone refer to him as 'Connolly' a few times. I think that's his surname. Is that all?"

"Do you know anything else? He's kinda been buggin' me."

"Well, he likes showgirls. I can't tell you how many times I've had to chase him out of the dressing rooms. A bit of a rogue, you might say, but always polite his own funny little way. He used to come regular, even if it was just to bother my girls, but I haven't seen him in a few days."

"Thanks a bunch, Medda," Spot said. He now knew the boy's surname, and that he was from Manhattan. Funny that Jack hadn't known him.

Or hadn't said he'd known him. Frankly, Spot was more inclined to trust Medda than Jack.

"And that Whistler kid not at all," he muttered to himself.