Sorry 'bout the wait guys. This happened, and that happened, and I slept in, and my mum's a nut... I'll stop babbling now, since no one really cares. Big thank yous out to everybody who reviewed, and welcome to Doctor of Writing and Queen of Doom. And keep your pants on, Ginny.

Chapter 10: Deuce's Comeuppance

"Good," Whistler said. He grabbed Mrs. Conlon's hand and started back up the stairs, listening for the sounds of the fight outside. It seemed eerily quiet, and Whistler hoped that Spot and the rest of the gang were okay. Maybe the walls were muffling the sound.

"Is Patrick all right?" Mrs. Conlon asked as they reached the top of the stairs.

"Shh, I'm tryin' 'a listen," Whistler whispered.

Upstairs, the fight had taken a turn for the worse. One of the Queens boys had managed to escape the carnage and had gone to get the police. The bulls had shown up in record time and immediately began arresting everyone in sight.

"Halt!" Spot shouted. This was the signal for the slingers on the fire escapes to ready their weapons. Needless to say, it was also the signal for the Brooklyn boys to take cover. The puzzled policemen found themselves under fire. Whistles blowing, they retreated.

Whistler nodded to himself as he heard the police whistles. He wasn't sure whether the bulls were coming or going, so he decided to take Mrs. Conlon and Emily out the back way. A small door in the back of a closet led out to an alleyway where the three fugitives scurried, Mrs. Conlon carrying Emily. The alley opened up into a the courtyard between the lodging house and the tenement behind it. Whistler led his charges through the tenement and out to the street beyond, and on over the border back to Brooklyn.
"Get 'im outta there!" Spot ordered. Deuce was brought before him, hands tied behind him. Spot looked at him with an expression of purest disgust.

"Well, you got anythin' to say for yerself?" the victor asked.

Deuce gulped and shook his head.

"Y'know, I've had more'n a few enemies during my reign, but I don' think I ever had one as spineless as you." Spot spat in the prisoner's face and looked around at the remaining Brooklynites, who were lounging around in the street in front of the lodging house. There were a few bruises here and there and a broken bone or two. Nothing major. "So whaddaya reckon we should do with him, boys?" Spot asked them.

"Well, we already soaked his guys," Skipper piped up. "I vote we soak him, since he didn't do nuthin'." This was followed by a chorus of "Hell yeah!" and "Soak 'im!" from several quarters.

"Shouldn't we wait for Whistler to show up?" Knicknack interrupted.A fewpeople groaned, but were silenced by a glare from Spot.

"Whistler's on a special mission from yours truly," Spot said. "He'll have his fun when he gets back."

"Well, Mrs. Conlon, it's been lovely visitin', but I'm afraid I must walk you and the little one home," said Whistler with great aplomb. Mrs. Conlon laughed. Emily began to cry. "Don' cry, Emmy," Whistler told her. "Tell ya what, I'll tell y'a story on the way over to 'Hattan, a'right?" A smile shone through the tears. Whistler grinned and set the girl on his shoulders.

"A story about a princess, right?"

"That's right, Emmy, a story about a princess. Her name was Janet, and she had yellow hair--" Whistler began to tell a somewhat altered version of the Scottish ballad "Tam Lin". Emily didn't need to know about Janet getting pregnant by Tam Lin in the rose bushes, or Tam Lin's habit of accosting young girls and taking their maidenhead.

It was growing dark by the time Whistler arrived back at the Queens lodging house where he was supposed to meet up with Spot and the rest of the gang. He found Deuce trussed up like a stuffed pig near the door, and a poker game in full swing in the common room.

"Deal me in?" Whistler asked, grabbing a chair. Someone dealt him a hand. "So anybody got an idea a' what to do with yon doorstop?"

"There's been a motion to soak 'im," Spot said, examining his cards. "I been makin' 'em wait till you got back."

"So we jus' gonna beat 'im up?"

"S'pose so."

"I got a better idea, how 'bout we chuck 'im in the river?" The suggestion was met with approval. The poker game was abandoned as the Brooklynites paraded down to the docks, the still handicapped Deuce carried by two of the larger boys. Whistler struck up a tune and soon nearly everyone was singing "Camp Town Ladies" for no apparent reason.

The camp town ladies sing this song
Doo-dah, doo-dah
Camp town track is five miles long
All the doo-dah day
Came down here with m'hat caved in
Doo-dah, doo-dah
Go back home with a pocket full a' tin
Oh, the doo-dah day

Gonna run all night
Gonna run all day
I bet my money on the bobtailed nag
Somebody bet on the bay

With great jubilation, the small crowd jostled the babbling prisoner over the edge and watched the splash.

"What's next, Spot?" Whistler asked with a grin, knowing full well what Spot was going to say.

"Now we party!"