Apparently Bethberry was unaccountably overtaken by an extreme urge to sneeze. She put her head down slightly and was seen to rub her nose back and forth energetically, hoping all the while that no one saw the upturn of her mouth as she fought desperately the urge to grin. It wouldn't do for her to be seen laughing at the little halfling's story, certainly not with the unexpected news Falco had divulged.
"It's a good thing the old man set you to rights about where you were, otherwise perhaps you might not have found your way back," was all the comment she could reliably manage to say.
"Well, 'twasn't like I was lost," proclaimed Falco somewhat indignantly. How could that woman be so dense? he thought to himself. She's missed the main part of my story. He shook his head and took another long sip of his tankard.
Bethberry watched Eodwine's face and decided to hold any questions until he felt like making matters known to her. "Shall we have, in honour of Master Falco's adventure this afternoon, another round of ale?" Voices rose in agreement. "On me, of course," she said.
"A sycamore was it?" asked Ruthven, lighting her own pipe and taking a long draw on it. "You're sure it was a sycamore? You've seen many of them in this here Shire of yours?"
Falco nodded with a great slow nod of his head, as if to say, Of course woman!
Ruthven blew one, two, three rings of smoke in the air. "So tell us about it, this walking tree. Is its bark worse than its walk?"
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