Sorry 'bout the wait, guys (or girls rather, since I think I might be the only guy on Newsies Fanfic). I got my laptop confiscated because I slept in and missed first period. Full details are in my livejournal, just in case you care. Which I severely doubt.

Oh, and I apologize in advance for the cliff-hanger and double dealing, but believe me, everything's going according to plan.

Chapter 8: Double Dealing

News of the kidnapping and subsequent meeting spread fast, partly because of Whistler's efforts, partly because newsies are notorious for having and sharing information. In less than two hours, all the Brooklyn newsies had assembled in the common room of the lodging house, completely by word of mouth.

"I'm sure you all knows why you're here," Spot said after rapping his cane on a table for attention.

"To kill Deuce!" someone shouted. Spot gave the boy a stern look.

"Now, we newsies is supposed to be unified now, ever since the strike," Spot continued. "An' believe me, I'm as glad of the truce as any other guy. Saves me keepin' track of everyone's every move." A few newsies looked at each other, trying to figure out where Spot's speech was going. "However!" Everyone snapped back to attention. "Deuce has broken the truce. Not only has he attacked me, he's done it by attackin' non-newsies, specifically women an' children. Are we gonna let this go?"

The resounding "NO!" nearly shook the rafters.

"Are we Brooklyn?"

"YEAH!"

"Are we gonna win 'gainst those slimy toads in Queens?"

"HELL YEAH!"

"When do we march?" Whistler shouted from the back, fully aware of the answer.

"Dawn," Spot replied.

The morning of September 2, 1899 dawned warm and wet. A light drizzle fell from the sky as the army of Brooklyn marched on Queens.

But someone was missing.

Skipper noticed it first. "Hey Knicknack," he said to the boy next to him. "Where's Whistler?"

Knicknack looked around, then shrugged. "Dunno. Come to think of it, don' think I seen him since last night at the meeting."

"Think Spot knows?" Skipper asked.

"'Course Spot knows. He's the leader."

"Eh, guess you're right—" But Skipper wasn't sure.

The individual in question scurried along back alleys and through buildings, taking the back route from Brooklyn to Queens. It was a little known route, commonly used only by the head honchos of Brooklyn and Queens. Most common newsies didn't even know it exsisted.

"Who goes there?" came a hoarse whisper.

"Someone Deuce wants to see," Whistler whispered back.

"From Brooklyn?"

"Nah, from Whistler."

"C'mon in."

The door to the Queens lodging house opened to admit the newcomer, then immediately slammed behind him.

"So, whatcha hear?" the door keeper asked.

"Oh, this an' that," Whistler said offhand. "Spot's comin' with a small army to rescue his mum an' his sister."

The door keeper swore. "Knowed it were a bad idea to get non-combatants involved. Deuce's got 'em in the back room, scared ta death, poor things. Don't see why we couldn't a' got Brooklyn some other way."

"How they doin', other than bein' scared?"

"Th' dame keeps prayin' an' crossin' herself. The little girl seems alright, but she keeps askin' for ya."

"She's a smart kid," Whistler said. "Didn't take her long to figger out that I'm not really from Brooklyn."

The door keeper chuckled at this. "Y'didn't come jus' to chitchat, didja? You wanted t'talk to Deuce."

"Nah, not really. Jus' wanted to let ya know 'bout Brooklyn's plans an' to make sure the prisoners are alright. There a poker game on yet?"

"Y'er always ready to play, ain'tcha Whistler?" the door keeper said with a smile. "Nah, no poker game yet."

"You up to get your arse kicked at Nine Man's Morris, then?"

"Sure, why not," the door keeper returned. "Maybe this time I'll finally beat you."

Not far away, Spot smiled as he readied his slingshot.