[Arry]

Fallon and Ferrin were from a family who prided themselves on their familiarity with ‘letters’ – reading, writing, the uses of words and their meanings. Fallon’s brows had raised toward his brother as the puffed up representative of Bree-men Big Folk spoke, no . . . spat out, the word ‘rustic’. They were also the children of a mother who valued courtesy and good nature toward neighbor and stranger. Unfortunately, the number of mugs of ale they’d taken had emphasized their sensitivity to the word the man used and all but deluged their sense of extending courtesy. It was to their merit they did discuss the word, but the Inn’s brew narrowed their willingness to accept it with a favorable view.

‘I don’t suppose he meant to call us honest and unaffected,’ whispered Fallon, one eye on Pegram as he puffed on his pipe like some lordly fellow. Ferrin snorted at his brother. ‘More likely he thinks us clodhoppers, boors, and ignorant farmers.’

Ferrin grinned at his brother and stood on the seat of his chair. Pulling up the sleeves of his tunic and then the hem as he inspected his skin, he danced about a bit in an anxious spiral. He climbed to the table top, pulling the alarmed Fallon up after him. ‘Look! Look!’ he cried, scratching himself here and there. ‘I’m rusted for sure!’ He looked wildly about the room and pointed at Pegram. ‘Himself has put his very finger on my problem! Look, look!’

Fallon bit the inside of his nearly ale-numbed lip to keep himself from laughing. ‘I see one!’ he said, nodding his head in a serious manner and pointing to his brother’s belly. Then he began to scratch and dance about on the table’s top, too. ‘Stars above! I think it’s catching!’ Wide-eyed patrons of the common room shook their heads at the two Hobbits’ antics. Those who knew them well, though, knew they were up to some mischief. They clapped and hooted and egged the brothers on, wanting to see what came next.

And what did come next was the inadvertent, or so it seemed, connecting of Ferrin’s flying foot with the refilled pitcher of ale. It tipped over neatly, the golden stream running swiftly across the short distance to where Pegram sat, his face reflecting the fact that these churlish creatures had proved his point. His lap, his fine trousers and part of his shirt were soaked with stout.

The brothers jumped from the table before the man could stand. Ferrin winked broadly at Derufin, while Fallon, remembering his manners, mouthed ‘Sorry!’ at Jinniver. They were out the door in a trice, running down the path toward home, leaving only the sound of their laughter behind to be scolded.