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Falco was, perhaps, the most enthusiastic of those applauding. He was familiar with the song. His friend Fosco had learned it in some quiet Shire garden far from his own home, and had brought it back to teach to Falco. Aside from this, Falco was as fond of the boys as he possibly could be fond of anyone having met them just the previous day. He had wondered about them that morning, and it was delightful that they were back again, singing as strong and fine as ever, their sympathy with their instruments sounding in every echoing notes.
He was grateful for them for having invited him to play with them, and more grateful that they had gone through another song immediately afterwards. It gave him the opportunity to sneak quietly up besides them, picking up the whistle on the way, which was preferable to coming up in the midst of their praise and risking all eyes upon them. He was still slightly hesitant about going up, for though he wanted to very much he felt just slightly embarrassed, but Marigold caught onto his sleeve and gazed up at him with eager eyes.
"Hurry, Mr. Headstrong!" she cried. "Hurry up there before they begin another song! Oh, Mr. Headstrong, I want you to play the tin whistle; please do! You play it so much like my papa, and you know all the songs that he used to sing to me, and all the ways he used to play them!" When she saw that he still hesitated (though he did it merely for show), she pouted and stamped her foot, putting her hands on her hips and assuming a very motherly air. "If you don't go up there right this minute," she said, wagging a finger at him, "I will make such music that only a crying and bawling little hobbit girl can make!"
"But, Marigold," he said, his voice protesting, though he was already on his feet, "I was discussing the laundry with Miss Camille's mother..."
Marigold gave him a very stern look, and then she turned to Rory. "I don't care if he stops discussing laundry, do you? She's your mother. Don't you want Mr. Headstrong to go up and play the whistle with those boys?"
Rory nodded, and his eyes were just as eager as Marigold's. Falco gave a reluctant sigh, but the twinkle in his eye could not be hidden. He left the table, crept towards the lads quiet casually with his hands in his pockets, and, unobserved, or at least hoping he was, he picked up the tin whistle and melted in beside them. His welcome from the boys was warm, and he felt the old feeling of the days of his youth returning to him. He already felt his toes tapping, though there was no lively whistling, and he already felt the tear in his eye, though the sobbing of the fiddles had not yet been strained.
"Now, what is it you had in mind to play?" he asked.
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