Sorry 'bout the delay, people. This may or may not be the end for A Key Round His Neck, it all depends on whether I can come up with more plot ideas. Thank you all for your reviews, and for sticking with this even though I don't really know what the hell I'm doing.

Chapter 5: Whistler

Spot hadn't been sleeping. Sure, he had closed his eyes, but only so he wouldn't have to look at his second-in-command happily taking control where he hadn't been able to. He didn't like being outdone, particularly not by someone who had recently betrayed him.

Although looking at Whistler, he certainly didn't seem to show any signs of remorse. And that hurt Spot more than ever.

Eventually Mrs. Conlon came home. Emily had been fed and put to bed by Whistler, while Spot had cleaned up the kitchen, grumbling the entire time.

"And who's this?" she asked as she came in the door to Spot's room, finding Whistler and Spot playing Nine Man's Morris with Mr. Conlon's checkers set and a chalk-and-paper board.

"I'm Whistler, Spot—er, Patrick's second-in-command," Whistler explained as he moved a piece. Spot fumed as the redheaded boy removed one of his superior's pieces, adding it to the pile beside him.

"Remind me why I agreed to play this game," Spot muttered.

"Because you won't admit that you can't beat me at it," Whistler returned. Spot cursed, forgetting his mother's presence.

"Patrick!" she said. Spot paled. "I won't have you using that sort of language."

"Sorry, mother," Spot muttered. Mrs. Conlon's face lit up at the new form address.

"What did you three have for dinner?" she asked.

"Whistler made pancakes."

For some reason this came as a shock to Mrs. Conlon. Whistler spoke up.

"I'm actually a decent cook, ma'am," he said. "Jus' don' get much practice."

"Well, thank you very much, Whistler," said Mrs. Conlon. "It's getting late, isn't it? Shouldn't you be going home?"

"It's an awful long walk over the bridge, an' none too safe in the dark," Spot pointed out. Whistler nodded. All sorts of crazies were known to frequent the bridge after night fell. "I wuz figgerin' he'd stay over tonight an' go back in the mornin'. He kin stay in the guestroom, right?"

Mrs. Conlon nodded, noting the grin that formed on Whistler's face. Much as she didn't like her son consorting with such people, her maternal instinct refused to let a young boy go into danger, even if he was a street rat. And she could always lock the guestroom door after he'd fallen asleep, just in case…

"You what?!" Spot yelled as soon as his mother had come into his room.

"I don't trust him," Mrs. Conlon said stubbornly. "He's no better than a street rat, and probably a thief besides."

"If he is, it's nobody's business but his," Spot fumed. "'Sides, he's my flippin' second. He wouldn't rob me or my family." He was more than a little angry. Sure, he wanted to get Whistler back for betraying him, but locking him into the guestroom? Not only was it disrespectful, it was pointless. Whistler was the best lockpick in New York, probably the world.

"You never know with street rats. They have no morals," Mrs. Conlon said soothingly.

"More morals than some so-called respectable folk," someone said. Spot and Mrs. Conlon looked over to the door. There stood Whistler, fully dressed and not pleased. "Spot, when you told me 'bout yer mum, you never said she was so suspicious that she'd lock guests in for the night."

"Believe me, Wiss, I had no idea."

"I'm not blamin' you, Spot," Whistler assured him, ignoring the nickname for the time being. He had a lot more than that coming, he reasoned, for giving Spot over to his family. "But I am leavin', and I'd appreciate if you came with me."

Spot looked to his mother. Then he nodded. Suddenly something occurred to him. "Say, Whistler. If you'se here, an' I'm here, who's in charge over in Brooklyn?"

"Exactly," Whistler said. "It all went to hell after you left, y'know. I never could get up on time, and half the guys slept in after waitin' up late for ya. They told me if I didn't come back with you, I wasn't to come back at all."

Mrs. Conlon looked like she was about to cry.

"Don't worry, Mother," Spot said. "I'll come back to visit sometimes. An' Emily's taken a likin' to Whistler."

"But—"

"Maybe I was happy here when I was nine, but I got a new life now," he explained. "I got a bunch of people dependin' on me." Whistler nodded.

"He'll come to visit at least once a week," Whistler assured her. "An' if he fergets, I'll remind him."

Mrs. Conlon sighed. "I suppose so."

"So—" Whistler said.

"So, what?" Spot asked.

"I suppose I got it comin' to me for knockin' you out."

Spot could hardly believe his ears. Was Whistler asking to be beaten up? He decided to play it safe and get more information before acting.

"Yah, y'sure do," he said.

"Well?" Whistler asked. "I don't like havin' loose ends flyin' around. I beat up on you, you get to beat up on me so we're even."

"Are you actually askin' me to hit you?"

Whistler nodded. "Won't fight back, either, since you didn't fight back when I hit you before."

Spot grinned evilly. "We got a lot of catchin' up to do."