Another memory of Sandy's adjoins that of the Apostles'; and he told it with great precision and regard for the truth.
Ever since crossing the River of Make-Believe Sandy had been able to think of nothing but the story Bridget had told—the very last thing in Ward C—and ever since he had left the leprechaun's bush behind he had been wondering and scheming how he could get rid of his hump. He was the only person in Tir-na-n'Og that night who did not dance. Unnoticed, he climbed into a corner of the throne—among the sleeping baby faeries—and there he thought hard. As he listened to the pipers' music he shook his head mournfully.
"A canna make music mair bonny nor that—a canna," he said; and he set about searching through the scraps of his memory for what music he did know. There were the hymns they sang every Sunday at Saint Margaret's; but he somewhat doubted their appropriateness here. Then there were the songs his mother had sung to him home in Aberdeen. Long ago the words had been forgotten; but often and often he had hummed the music of them over to himself when he was going to sleep—it was good music for that. One of the airs popped into his mind that very minute; it was a Jacobite song about "Charlie," and he started to hum it softly. Close on the humming came an idea—a braw one; it made him sit up in the corner of the throne and clap his hands, while his toes wriggled exultantly inside his faery shoes.
"A can do't—a can!" He shouted it so loud that the baby faeries woke up and asked what he was going to do, and gathered about him to listen the better.
The pipers played until there were no more memories left and everything had come true; and the queen came back to her throne to find Sandy waiting, eager-eyed, for her.
"A have a bonny song made for ye. Wull ye tak it frae me noo?"
"Take what?"
"The hump. Ye tuk it frae the ither loonie gien he made ye some guid music; an' a ha' fetched ye mair—here." And he tapped his head to signify that it was not written down.
"Is the song ready, now?"
Sandy nodded.