Gamba cracked the large door and peered through into the smoke while the kitchen staff looked on, smiling. He hesitated, and closed the door again. A waiter came in, gathered a platter of steaming dishes, and with an amused glance at the redfaced and dishevelled hobbit, headed for the door.
Gamba ran his fingers through his mop of curls, succeeding only in making them wilder; he straightened his shirt hastily, tucked in his shirttail, and then as the waiter proceeded through the door, melted behind him, and used him for cover til he could slip under a table again.
Rimbaud kept an eye on the door and wondered when the hobbit would gather his courage and come back out, when suddenly a mop of curls appeared by his side. "Reporting, sir, " mumbled a sheepish voice; wide brown eyes gazed up at him as a pair of very clean fists were jammed deep into breeches-pockets.
[ November 27, 2002: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]
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...down to the water to see the elves dance and sing upon the midsummer's eve.
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