Anpassal 1
"Slumgullion!" said Sam, wiggling his toes contentedly in the muddy track which led to the garden gate. "If this isn't a
fine Shire morning. Rain yesterday and rain tomorrow but no rain today."
"So it would seem," answered Frodo. "Odd thing, weather. But as I was saying -- if I were to replace the portrait of
Balbo Baggins with an etching of the Hill at Midsummer, do you suppose Bilbo would --" He grimaced with an
expression which was startlingly like that of his great-great-grandfather, though Sam would never dare to tell him.
"Sir?"
"You know."
"Know what?" asked Sam, flicking his eyes over the bare flower border as if the disposition of Frodo's gewgaws was of
little moment to a Gamgee. Balbo had been handsome enough in his day, but the years had not dealt kindly with the
varnish. He should have been relegated to the mathom-room long since.
"Mind," Frodo said. "Would he mind?"
Sam paused in his consideration of the garden chores and his sandy brows furrowed. He wasn't inclined to think
o'ermuch before second breakfast, but he knew diddle-daddle when he heard it.
"Wherever he is, Mr. Frodo, he'll have more to mind than ancestral daubs, begging your pardon. Spiders, trolls and
dwarves," he added with relish.
Sam had been reluctant to give credit to Bilbo's fireside tales, yet doubtless there were far worse dangers beyond the
Shire's borders than wire-worms in the carrot patch; trolls alone would straighten a hobbit's foot hair. He had pondered
their nature more often than he cared to admit, for if he were high as a house he wouldn't need a ladder to prune the
wisteria. He had tried stretching exercises and herbal salves, but he remained a sturdy three foot four inches.
"You're right, of course." Frodo sighed as if there were days when he would just as soon pass on the burden of
mastering Bag End to the S-Bs. "The parlour will require a coat of paint and the -- "
"I'll place an order at Wilcome's for two gallons of ochre white or you can take the pony and cart to Frogmorton and fetch
them yourself." Sam calculated the distance from the arbour to the smial and jotted down a figure with his wax pencil.
He would need six flats of marigolds and three of purple lobelia. At one penny a flat that would come to -- He scratched
his head.
"-- horsehair sofa would benefit from a new fringe and tassels. Fetch them myself?" Frodo looked at Sam uncertainly.
"Why?"
Nine pennies.
Sam stuck his pencil behind his left ear and pursed his lips. Perhaps it would rain later this afternoon. He had better
nip along to the potting shed or he'd be caught with his drawers down.
"Wilcome sends the waggon to town once a fortnight. You've missed it." He edged away while Frodo was examining
the smial top for subsidence. "I can't ride to Frogmorton nor paint the parlour before I go on holiday. You'll have to wait,
sir, or get out your smock and brushes. And don't bother with the chimneys. Old Noakes repointed them last summer."
Frodo's monthly inspection of the estate generally involved copious quantities of tea, ancient maps, plans of the garden,
a notebook, and a stout metal-shod staff. Under normal circumstances, Sam walked behind carrying an umbrella (if it
was raining) and the measuring stick (if it was not) while Frodo took notes in his meticulous handwriting. This
morning, however, Sam had duties which the unexpected dry weather had made imperative and Frodo was forced to
carry his own stick.
"Holiday?" said Frodo, testing the word. "I had no idea. Do you make a habit of it?"
"Not a habit, sir, no." Sam pulled a length of twine, a leather glove, and a dried sprout from his pocket, but there was no
leek dibber to be found. "I knew I'd want it if I hadn't got it."
Frodo stared at the sprout.
"A hobbit accustomed to vicissitudes is not easily dejected, as Cousin Bilbo used to say, although his familiarity with
vicissitudes was long ago and his life since then a steady pursuit of pleasure, if entertaining youngsters from
Tuckborough and Brandy Hall can be deemed a pleasure."
He unfolded his measuring stick and held it across the path.
"Gravel, I think. What haven't you got?"
"My dibber. The leeks want planting and I -- "
"Have very little time for the garden before you go on holiday. So you mentioned." Frodo studied Sam as if he wasn't
sure who this strange lad in the green worsted breeches could be. "Why haven't I noticed you going on holiday?"
"I can't tell, sir. We've journeyed to Gammidge for the Gathering since I was in swaddling clouts. Nan Gamgee -- Roper
Gamgee's widow that is -- was a stickler for attendance. Uncle Andy used to call her --"
Frodo put up a hand.
"The 'Gathering'?"
"That's what we name it, on account o' the numbers." Sam threw the sprout into the shrubbery and drew on his glove.
"As I was saying, Uncle Andy didn't get on with Nan. He favoured Roper in looks and temperament, but he never learned
to bend his neck. Nan wanted him to go as 'prentice to Holman Greenhand, 'cept Andy was a Gamgee born and it was
Dad who had the touch with growing things that came to us through Nanny Rowan."
"What did he call her?"
"Who, sir?" Sam gazed at the bit of twine, then wound it into a ball the size of a conker and slipped it into his breast
pocket. "Our Dad?"
The measuring stick quivered. 'T'would be a shame, Sam thought, if it fell into the muck so early in the day. Last
inspection month it had flown over the midden after an unfortunate encounter with a hornet and the posthobbit had
arrived on the doorstep to the sound of Frodo swearing like a Bucklander. Sam lifted his arm to catch it in case his
master's grip faltered.
"You said that Andwise had an epithet for your Grandmother Gamgee."
"Oh, aye." Sam chuckled. "I'd best not utter it though. Dad would give me a wallop if I spoke ill of the dead within
earshot of Number 3."
Frodo set his stick and other appurtenances on the step and folded his arms as if he were prepared to make an issue
of Sam's familial squabbles.
"Correct me if I err," he began, his eyes glazing over as he contemplated the furthest reaches of Sam's lineage. "Nan
Gamgee, otherwise known as Mistress Roper Gamgee, required your attendance at a festivity in Gamwich even when
you were too young to know the meaning of solid food. However, since your grandmother has passed on, I take it -- ?"
Sam nodded, sidling nearer to the potting shed. He would have been happy to explain the intricate negotiations
involved in getting every last Gamgee to Gammidge and back once a year, but he had been kept indoors by
inclemencies in the weather for three days running and the garden was a shrew's nest.
"She had a seizure at the well and Auntie May, who would have married Dudo Baggins if Nan hadn't objected, was
touched in the head as a consequence. They closed the well and no one lives in Gammidge now except for Wiseman's
great-nephew, Harding."
Frodo looked as if he wished to sit down, but he contented himself with tapping his fingers on the sleeve of his well-
tailored jacket. Superfine wool. Two silver pennies a yard.
"She fell into the well?"
"Straight in and was drownded. Auntie May was hard by with a load of washing in her arms. She hasn't been the same
since, and won't go near standing water."
"Goodness." Frodo shuddered. "I didn't know that your family tree was fraught with incident; there's not a Baggins born
who hasn't died safely in his bed, Bilbo's disappearance notwithstanding nor my own father's unseemly demise. But
as I was saying before you interrupted -- Your grandmother has passed on, and in a way which can leave no doubt in
anyone's mind; why should it matter now that she was a stickler for attendance?"
If the leek seedlings had to wait until Mr. Frodo slaked his curiosity they'd be kith and kin to the shrivelled sprout in no
time. Sam supposed that he oughtn't to have mentioned Nan Gamgee, but she had a way of popping up in a
conversation that --
"You asked me --" Sam clutched his pencil to steady his nerves; it wasn't as stout as the dibber, but it would serve.
"You said you hadn't noticed me going on holiday afore, and I said I must have done whether you noticed or not 'cos
Nan was a stickler. I can't say why it should matter, but habits are cobwebs at first and cables at last, as Uncle Andy
was wont to declare whenever he looked at Nan. If there was a hobbit who knew about ropes and bindings --"
"It was your Nan. Yes, I see." Frodo dismissed further explanation with a wave of his hand. "I'm still in the dark. What is
the nature of this 'Gathering'? Is it a fiddling competition? Group sheaf tossing?"
"Don't Bucklanders have Gatherings?" said Sam, astonished that a gentlehobbit whose family had lived in the
Westfarthing time out of mind could be unaware of his neighbour's doings to such an extent. Maybe if Frodo hadn't
been a staunch patron of the Green Dragon he might have caught a whiff of gossip from the oldsters who sunned
themselves at the door of the Ivy Bush. One gaffer had been heard to remark that a waggon's worth of Gamgees
heading westwards every Thrimmidge with a gaggle of Cottons in tow well nigh cleared the district. But what if Mr.
Frodo's ignorance were the effect of too many books and buttered scones on a lad already prone to solitary
introspection? Sam frowned. A broth of sorrel, plantain and chickweed would --
"I haven't the foggiest," said Frodo, glancing at his stick. It was a splendid stick, with brass joints and end tips. Sam felt
a twinge of discomfort at sight of it leaning casually by the step.
"I suppose," he said, one eye on the potting shed, "they needn't gather if they live at the Hall. There must be a frightful
crowd in the Great Dining Room of a Highday though. Plenty of games and high jinks, too, I shouldn’t wonder, if the
others resemble Mr. Merry."
"They don't all live --" Frodo's gaze followed Sam's towards the shed and his voice wavered. There was a moment's
silence as master and gardener admired Bag End's most prominent outbuilding.
"How many hobbits could squeeze inside, at a guess?" Sam was fond of games, and the shed was perfectly suited to
the sort of lark the village tweens had played at Overlithe till Jolly Cotton perched his backside on a pitchfork one fateful
night and their dads had put a stop to it. Since then it had been naught but Boggle-about-stack, winter and summer.
"It's near as big as --"
He bit his lip lest the deepest secret of the Gammidge festivities be mistakenly uncovered in the presence of an
incomer, even one who was a Baggins born and bred. As the Gaffer had warned him often and often, a fellow couldn't
be too careful where family matters were concerned.
"Sam?"
It would rain by tea-time and the list of chores had grown no shorter with the passing hours. He had lingered on the
footpath blathering to gentry while clouds formed over the White Downs, their tails lifted like a husk of coneys at sport,
and now he was trembling on the verge of an indiscretion. He turned up his collar and the words he had almost
spoken fell away.
"-- Farmer Proudfoot's byre," he finished, his face guileless.
"Hardly," Frodo said. "But if I may continue -- not all Bucklanders live at the Hall; if they did, they would find themselves
on very short commons indeed. I presume your Gathering consists of--"
"-- every Greenhand, Gamgee, Roper, and Cotton met together in our ancestral birthplace," said Sam, who had
gradually attained the ornamental outcropping of field stones by the perennial border before Frodo was able to
withdraw his attention from the ill-fated Gammidgey forebears long enough to notice the distance that yawned between
them. "I'd rather it were held at the Floating Log, where the ale is passable."
"How extraordinary," Frodo answered, hurrying to catch him up. "I have just one question."
"Yes, sir?" Sam set his hand to the latch of the potting shed door though his heart misgave him something fierce.
"Half inch gravel or one inch?"
"Half inch," said Sam, relieved that Frodo wasn't disposed to demand more than was fitting, for the sheaf toss and the
fiddles were the least of it. "I can't see to the path neither until I come back from Gammidge."
He raised the latch to end their talk and greeted his tools with a respectful nod before shrugging off his knapsack and
loosening the ragged drawstring. The shed smelled of damp earth, wood, and chicken muck, and there in one corner
was the three-legged stool with the row of hooks above it for his potato riddler, raincoat, and summer gardening hat.
The spider sat in its web beside the door jamb and a stack of earthenware pots stood ready near the window. Bless
me, he thought, this is home, not --
"You needn't do it at all, my dear," said Frodo, kicking his foot against the sill as Sam emptied his things onto the work
area. "Theuderic Bracegirdle is --"
"A cack-handed fool, aye." Sam was of the opinion that if he were to give Bag End the degree of care his master
required it would be to the detriment of the other gardens in his charge, but to surrender a Gamgee's time-honoured
duties to a road-mending Bracegirdle was a fate not to be borne. He clucked his tongue.
"He mustn't be allowed in the garden without I have charge of him, d'ye hear?" Sam gave his master a hard stare. "I
can't do it yet and that's flat, but it's a dandy notion and I'll lay the gravel as soon as may be."
He picked up the scuffle hoe and levelled it at the threshold. "You'll get a splinter in your toe if you keep on."
Frodo stepped back and his cool glance rested fleetingly on Sam, as who should say, 'I'll have a splinter in my toe if I
wish', then strayed to the array of potting trowels on the wall as though he had forgotten what else he might have said
about the path had he not been interrupted.
"The old place will be quieter than usual," he remarked, as if it were a matter of no consequence. "How many days will
you be gone?"
Bag End was already so quiet that Sam would have thought the smial abandoned had his master not ventured out-of-
doors now and then to inspect the garden and share the fruits of his reading with all and sundry. He did so more often
than formerly, and if he had been content at first to be the Mr. Baggins of Bag End--and legatee of Bilbo's reputed
wealth, as some folk said--it was evident to any hobbit with a morsel of sense that Frodo suffered from a want of
friends. The burden of Mastery at so young an age was made worse by the gaggle of striplings who hung on Frodo's
coat-tails when it suited them as they had hung on his uncle's. It was a shame.
"Ten days, if I ride in the dog cart with my Gaffer," he said, attempting to rid himself of the curious proposition which had
begun to take shape in his noddle as he had tucked his lunch box out of the way. "Nine if I go by shank's nag."
"Really?" Frodo fiddled with the latchstring as if he had never seen the mechanism until Sam would have laid his hand
on his master's to still it had he dared.
Instead, he tugged the second glove from his pocket and eyed the hat with disfavour. Broad-brimmed straw would only
tease the weather when the breeze that swirled around his ankles could draw the smudge of greyness from the Downs
by elevenses if it had the cheek. Sam's list of household chores was long, but he had risen at first light to help Old
Noakes with a damaged down-pipe, and the prospect of clambering into the loft at Bag End with a bulls-eye lantern
because a slow drip from the ceiling had stained the cover of the estate accounts was not a pleasant one. The down-
pipe had come free and dumped its load of wet leaves into Sam's outstretched arms, and doubtless he would put his
foot through the softened plaster of the loft before he had stopped the leak. He would rather trim the grass-border if the
rain held off and Frodo could set a pail on the study floor like common folk.
"Ah," he answered. "Dad has a bad hip, as you may know, and daren't walk farther than the Ivy Bush."
"Yes, I remember the bottle of liniment, but what--"
"He'd sooner go in Farmer Cotton's waggon than take our cart as he likes the fellowship, but he won't say so 'cos he
don't want me wandering alone. If he rides with the others, I'll walk." Sam shook out his raincoat and draped it over the
edge of the door. "The Cottons break their journey at the Half Butt in Tighfield where the beer is fair to middling. I won't
rattle my bones from here to Gammidge for the sake of it."
"How vexing." Frodo seemed remarkably untroubled by Sam's predicament, but something was weighing on his
tongue.
"Ten days at the start of the growing season?" he said at last. "Who will tend the garden?"
Sam shuffled his feet and glared at the hoe.
"Odo Proudfoot's great-nephew is a jobbing gardener. He's up to snuff and a pinch above, though I'd not trust him with
the oversight of a Bracegirdle." Sam pointed his thumb towards the village. "Odo is poorly and the lad is running the
poulterer's till he mends."
"I'm sorry to hear it," said Frodo, but whether he was sorry about Gaffer Proudfoot's health or sorry that his front path
would be bare of gravel for a fortnight was moot. "When do you go?"
"Monday next. You'll hardly miss me."
"Monday is short notice," Frodo said absently, his fingers tightening against the iron latch.
"Not so very short." Sam balanced on the doorstep, squinting at the muddy path and the two sets of footprints marching
back and forth from smial to gate. They had spent a busy morning.
"A stone path would be especially fine," he suggested, "if the Baggins' coffers can run to the expense." He pulled at his
earlobe while he thought of the slate flagstones he had seen in Burrfoot's Catalogue. "Begging your pardon," he
added, in case the remark had sounded insolent.
"Stone?" Frodo's lips were distracting at the best of times but irresistible when he pouted. Sam looked away.
"Aye," he said. "A stone path, properly constructed, can turn your garden from a ho-hum collection of plants into the
envy of the neighbourhood. Or so the Catalogue would have it."
"I'll bear it in mind," answered Frodo, "although I was under the impression that my collection of plants was already the
envy of the neighbourhood. No, don't protest." He brushed off Sam's declaration of steadfast devotion to Bag End's
horticultural marvels with a gesture. "I'll have nothing to occupy me for the next fortnight--"
"Naught but book-learning, letter-writing, and burning dumplings to pot," Sam mumbled as he gathered his tools.
"--since I'll be at the mercy of a second-rater from Overhill. What?"
"If you'd stand aside, sir. The leeks--" For the most part, Sam was happy to lend an ear to Frodo's running commentary
on the cares of his position, but anything that hindered his progress towards the kitchen garden was a hurdle to be
overcome before it rained.
"Not at all." Frodo dropped the latch and held the door open. "I'll resume my tour of the grounds then, shall I?"
"I s'pose," said Sam, popping behind the shed for his barrow the moment the chance offered itself. He had again
experienced an upsurge of the curious proposition and his Dad would be that put out if he heeded it.
"What's wrong?" asked Frodo, his words muffled by distance. "Stone is better than gravel, isn't it? Would you prefer to
measure the square footage of the area now so that I can order the slate when you're abroad or--"
"Aye, 'tis. And no --" Sam jerked the tarp from the barrow and lay the scuffle hoe inside. "I haven't time, as I keep telling
you."
Sam knew that his manner was testy, and that it was no one's fault but his own if he had misplaced the dibber. Yet he
was also chafed by an unconscionable desire to remove his jacket while the sun was out in spite of the Gaffer's
instructions on proper dress. Frodo had never shown the slightest awareness of Sam's clothes nor his politely bared
head, and his readiness to doff his own togs was well-known in Hobbiton. There was no reason why Sam shouldn't
expose his shirtsleeves as long as the Gaffer wasn't by, but the idea gave him the colly-wobbles. A plump sausage
pasty would settle things down, as it did whenever Tom Cotton mentioned Rosie and wedlock in the same breath. In
fact, Sam's belly was growing rounder due to the number of times May's pasties had been called into service since
Yule. He looked at his breadbasket.
"Would you trust me to measure it?" said Frodo, peering around the corner of the shed with a woeful expression which
belied the tartness of his tone.
"Measure it?" echoed Sam, hoping that he might have an opportunity to remove his jacket soonish rather than laterish.
"The path," replied Frodo. "What else should I measure? My stick is--"
"Waiting on the step," said Sam, a mite crestfallen. He plucked the wax pencil from its hiding place and reflected on his
choices. Sun won't fade it and rain won't wash it away, Master Burfoot had said when six hard-earned pennies had been
handed over and the new Shire-made mechanical wax pencil lay in Sam's pocket, wrapped in a slip of brown paper tied
with string. And so it had proven.
"Maybe I'm daft--" he said with a silent apology to his Gaffer, but if he was headed towards the ditch he might as well try
for the duck pond.
"No, you're quite right," Frodo interjected. "I left it there when your story of Mistress Roper Gamgee was nearing its
culmination."
"So you did, but I meant--" Sam took a deep breath and finished quickly, "You could walk along o' me."
"Oh." Frodo started and his eyes fell to Sam's pencil. "I thought you planned to tally the bedding plants while I
examined the cistern. I can't imagine what possible use I could be to you in the garden."
Sam groaned inwardly. A wiser hobbit would have taken advantage of Frodo's puzzlement and stifled the urge to make
his meaning clear, but as the Gaffer was fond of remarking, Sam was not that hobbit.
"You could walk with me to Gammidge, if you'd a mind," he murmured, glancing up through his fringe with the air of one
whose days in regular employment were numbered.
The furtive winks which accompanied rumours of Frodo's rambles in pursuit of elves were proof that respect for the
Master's dignity counted for little at the Green Dragon, but Sam had unbounded trust in his master's tales and kept his
own counsel. A journey across the western reaches of the Shire would be a wondrous thing, if his master could only be
content with plain hobbit company.
"My dear chap," said Frodo, just as Sam was beginning to regret the offer, "I'm a Baggins born and bred. What would
your Gaffer think?"
Sam didn't care tuppence what his Gaffer thought, though he would march through the Wednesday market stark naked
rather than admit to such a wayward opinion. A fellow of two and twenty could admire a lad as feisty and outspoken as
Mr. Frodo without his Dad's say-so, and if that same lad also sported a well-turned calf then it was no wonder the
admiration could easily--
"I can't tell," Sam managed, grasping the barrow-handles with fingers gone white from the imprint of his pencil. Dad
expected everyone to mind his place, whether he was an antique gentlehobbit who had buggered off across the
Brandywine River or a nobody like Sam who feared to get above his station. The Gaffer's views on the subject of
Frodo's presence in their midst would be expressed in no uncertain terms at the supper table that evening and again at
first breakfast, if Sam knew how many blue beans made five. Frodo's face was hard to read since the barrow was
engrossing so much of Sam's attention, but he was clearly not in the least offended by the proposal, and if he hadn't
said 'what a top-hole idea, Sam', neither had he said 'no'. Things were looking up.
Sam pushed the wheel over the lip of the path and trundled his load to the front of the shed with a lighter step. Not even
the ragging he would undergo once his sisters caught wind of the arrangement could entirely quell the hum which rose
in his breast.
"You mayn't be a Gamgee," he said, glancing back to see whether Frodo had followed him doorwards, "but unless I'm
mistaken you've a Cotton in your family tree. Most folk do hereabouts."
Sam was intent on his work now that Frodo had failed to raise any serious objections, and when the day's meals --
from the onion scones enclosed in a frayed scrap of linen to the oatcakes with cheese and bacon -- had been arranged
on the table in the shed, he would buckle down to the rest of the morning's chores and let his master ponder their
ancestry in peace.
"You astonish me," said Frodo, watching from the doorway. "There's nothing in the Baggins records to indicate a--"
"Byblow," said Sam.
"-- an irregular connexion."
"Old Cottar had offspring on both sides of the blanket." Sam gazed at the leeks on the window ledge and considered
the likelihood of finding his dibber if he turned out his pockets a second time. It might have slipped into the lining of his
jacket. He hoisted a tray. "Longo Baggins was--"
"A distant relation." Frodo stood to one side as Sam came out of the shed with his arms full and laid the seed trays in
the barrow. "I'll study Bilbo's personal records while you search for your what-do-you-call-it."
Sam straightened, the oak handles warm on his palms as he rolled the barrow in a half-circle to face the kitchen
garden.
"The estate inspection --" he began, but his master had returned to his measuring stick and was tucking the maps and
plans into his satchel.
"I'll replace Balbo's picture once the walls have been painted," said Frodo. "The Hill at Midsummer is a trifle frowsty
from the loft but it's a cut above the usual Baggins bric-a-brac. I wish Bilbo had given the oliphaunt's-foot stand to
Adelard as well as the umbrella. I nearly dropped the stand through the passage ceiling yesterday."
Sam had been sowing radishes the previous afternoon when a terrible uproar had fallen upon his ears from the roof
vent. The odds of Frodo coming to grief in his own smial were scarcely worth the interest of a serious betting hobbit,
and Sam had continued to press the fine soil over the tiny brown seeds. He frowned.
"You should have called me, sir. Those pine floorboards are dodgy. Mr. Bilbo let the smial go to wrack and ruin in his
latter years, if you don't mind --"
Frodo snorted.
"I never mind. You've been 'in and out of Bag End' since you were a nipper." His eyes wandered to the low, irregular
wall of the south front and narrowed thoughtfully. "I fear the inspection will be shorter than usual; I ought to make a
packing list. The path will have to wait on the weather in any case and I'm well aware that we need to repair the
cistern."
"A packing list?" Sam's brows rose into his hair.
"Yes," said Frodo. "A packing list. String, a card of buttons, two haporth of boiled sweets.... I'll be out of my element, of
course; a mere stranger in your midst--"
He paused expectantly.
"Oh, no, sir, not once you've--" Sam was unable to complete the sentence due to the sudden realisation that even
though his vow of secrecy might be broken in this instance, the obligation to spare his master's blushes remained.
"Yes?"
"-- met the lads," Sam concluded, lifting the barrow and hastening towards the back garden before the gathering clouds
left them hock deep in water. He stopped to contemplate Frodo's kit. "I mustn't lollygag all day, but if you need help with
t'other end of that measuring stick--"
"Are you sure?" Frodo sidled across to the barrow and nudged a seedling that had crumpled sideways against its
fellows. "Spindly beggars."
"Aye," said Sam, eager to get on with the job of grubbing and planting if only Frodo would leave off blocking the track to
the vegetable patch, "but I can't swear to it. I'll be stuck in amongst these leeks the minute I find my dibber."
"Uncomfortable position," said Frodo. "However, I was alluding to the festivities in Gamwich. My stick will return to the
study for now."
"I--" Sam tried vainly to swallow the lump in his throat. If the Gaffer were to find out that his youngest son's importunate
offer had upset the order of things at Bag End, he might pack Sam off to the Northfarthing post-haste.
"Steady on." Frodo clapped Sam's back in an affable manner, his hand lingering on the worn twill. "I'd stay behind
rather than put you to any bother, as I hope you know."
"If I have to listen to my sisters natter from here to yon," said Sam in a small voice, "I'll go off the hooks."
"I was spared the burden of sisters," replied Frodo, "but Aunt Dora Baggins has done her best to make up for it." He
glanced at his watch. "I want to consult Mushrooms of the Westfarthing and prepare a route map; I'd hate to miss the
sights through lack of planning. Perhaps we could discuss it later over a cup of tea?"
Although Sam was unfamiliar with any sights worth mentioning between Bywater and Gammidge, he wasn't averse to a
hot beverage at fourses. If he could prevent his master from straying into Rushock Bog in search of puffballs, he would
endure any number of unnecessary diversions.
"Happen we might, if --"
"-- you get those blasted leeks in the ground before it rains." Frodo buckled his satchel, and drew the strap across his
shoulder. "I have the distinct impression that you think me unmindful of your work."
"No, sir," said Sam, who had noticed the slim figure at the window on several occasions in recent weeks but was too
polite to remark on it. "If you'll let me eat my slice of lardy cake in the kitchen... A fellow has to maintain his strength."
"By all means," said Frodo, looking at Sam's dirty bare legs, his patched breeches and straining weskit. "You may eat
whatever you fancy in my kitchen."
He smiled, his dark eyes warm.
"Ah," said Sam. He hoisted the barrow a little higher. "Thankee, Mr. Frodo."
"No. Thank you, Sam. This journey will be the perfect distraction from the cares of a shabby genteel landlord." He
turned to the door. "Come in at four unless I call you first."
Sam would have assured his master that no one who bought his clothing from the gentlehobbit's outfitters in Michel
Delving could be regarded as 'shabby', but Frodo's attention was bent on his measuring stick and Sam resigned
himself to the day's work without further ado.
fine Shire morning. Rain yesterday and rain tomorrow but no rain today."
"So it would seem," answered Frodo. "Odd thing, weather. But as I was saying -- if I were to replace the portrait of
Balbo Baggins with an etching of the Hill at Midsummer, do you suppose Bilbo would --" He grimaced with an
expression which was startlingly like that of his great-great-grandfather, though Sam would never dare to tell him.
"Sir?"
"You know."
"Know what?" asked Sam, flicking his eyes over the bare flower border as if the disposition of Frodo's gewgaws was of
little moment to a Gamgee. Balbo had been handsome enough in his day, but the years had not dealt kindly with the
varnish. He should have been relegated to the mathom-room long since.
"Mind," Frodo said. "Would he mind?"
Sam paused in his consideration of the garden chores and his sandy brows furrowed. He wasn't inclined to think
o'ermuch before second breakfast, but he knew diddle-daddle when he heard it.
"Wherever he is, Mr. Frodo, he'll have more to mind than ancestral daubs, begging your pardon. Spiders, trolls and
dwarves," he added with relish.
Sam had been reluctant to give credit to Bilbo's fireside tales, yet doubtless there were far worse dangers beyond the
Shire's borders than wire-worms in the carrot patch; trolls alone would straighten a hobbit's foot hair. He had pondered
their nature more often than he cared to admit, for if he were high as a house he wouldn't need a ladder to prune the
wisteria. He had tried stretching exercises and herbal salves, but he remained a sturdy three foot four inches.
"You're right, of course." Frodo sighed as if there were days when he would just as soon pass on the burden of
mastering Bag End to the S-Bs. "The parlour will require a coat of paint and the -- "
"I'll place an order at Wilcome's for two gallons of ochre white or you can take the pony and cart to Frogmorton and fetch
them yourself." Sam calculated the distance from the arbour to the smial and jotted down a figure with his wax pencil.
He would need six flats of marigolds and three of purple lobelia. At one penny a flat that would come to -- He scratched
his head.
"-- horsehair sofa would benefit from a new fringe and tassels. Fetch them myself?" Frodo looked at Sam uncertainly.
"Why?"
Nine pennies.
Sam stuck his pencil behind his left ear and pursed his lips. Perhaps it would rain later this afternoon. He had better
nip along to the potting shed or he'd be caught with his drawers down.
"Wilcome sends the waggon to town once a fortnight. You've missed it." He edged away while Frodo was examining
the smial top for subsidence. "I can't ride to Frogmorton nor paint the parlour before I go on holiday. You'll have to wait,
sir, or get out your smock and brushes. And don't bother with the chimneys. Old Noakes repointed them last summer."
Frodo's monthly inspection of the estate generally involved copious quantities of tea, ancient maps, plans of the garden,
a notebook, and a stout metal-shod staff. Under normal circumstances, Sam walked behind carrying an umbrella (if it
was raining) and the measuring stick (if it was not) while Frodo took notes in his meticulous handwriting. This
morning, however, Sam had duties which the unexpected dry weather had made imperative and Frodo was forced to
carry his own stick.
"Holiday?" said Frodo, testing the word. "I had no idea. Do you make a habit of it?"
"Not a habit, sir, no." Sam pulled a length of twine, a leather glove, and a dried sprout from his pocket, but there was no
leek dibber to be found. "I knew I'd want it if I hadn't got it."
Frodo stared at the sprout.
"A hobbit accustomed to vicissitudes is not easily dejected, as Cousin Bilbo used to say, although his familiarity with
vicissitudes was long ago and his life since then a steady pursuit of pleasure, if entertaining youngsters from
Tuckborough and Brandy Hall can be deemed a pleasure."
He unfolded his measuring stick and held it across the path.
"Gravel, I think. What haven't you got?"
"My dibber. The leeks want planting and I -- "
"Have very little time for the garden before you go on holiday. So you mentioned." Frodo studied Sam as if he wasn't
sure who this strange lad in the green worsted breeches could be. "Why haven't I noticed you going on holiday?"
"I can't tell, sir. We've journeyed to Gammidge for the Gathering since I was in swaddling clouts. Nan Gamgee -- Roper
Gamgee's widow that is -- was a stickler for attendance. Uncle Andy used to call her --"
Frodo put up a hand.
"The 'Gathering'?"
"That's what we name it, on account o' the numbers." Sam threw the sprout into the shrubbery and drew on his glove.
"As I was saying, Uncle Andy didn't get on with Nan. He favoured Roper in looks and temperament, but he never learned
to bend his neck. Nan wanted him to go as 'prentice to Holman Greenhand, 'cept Andy was a Gamgee born and it was
Dad who had the touch with growing things that came to us through Nanny Rowan."
"What did he call her?"
"Who, sir?" Sam gazed at the bit of twine, then wound it into a ball the size of a conker and slipped it into his breast
pocket. "Our Dad?"
The measuring stick quivered. 'T'would be a shame, Sam thought, if it fell into the muck so early in the day. Last
inspection month it had flown over the midden after an unfortunate encounter with a hornet and the posthobbit had
arrived on the doorstep to the sound of Frodo swearing like a Bucklander. Sam lifted his arm to catch it in case his
master's grip faltered.
"You said that Andwise had an epithet for your Grandmother Gamgee."
"Oh, aye." Sam chuckled. "I'd best not utter it though. Dad would give me a wallop if I spoke ill of the dead within
earshot of Number 3."
Frodo set his stick and other appurtenances on the step and folded his arms as if he were prepared to make an issue
of Sam's familial squabbles.
"Correct me if I err," he began, his eyes glazing over as he contemplated the furthest reaches of Sam's lineage. "Nan
Gamgee, otherwise known as Mistress Roper Gamgee, required your attendance at a festivity in Gamwich even when
you were too young to know the meaning of solid food. However, since your grandmother has passed on, I take it -- ?"
Sam nodded, sidling nearer to the potting shed. He would have been happy to explain the intricate negotiations
involved in getting every last Gamgee to Gammidge and back once a year, but he had been kept indoors by
inclemencies in the weather for three days running and the garden was a shrew's nest.
"She had a seizure at the well and Auntie May, who would have married Dudo Baggins if Nan hadn't objected, was
touched in the head as a consequence. They closed the well and no one lives in Gammidge now except for Wiseman's
great-nephew, Harding."
Frodo looked as if he wished to sit down, but he contented himself with tapping his fingers on the sleeve of his well-
tailored jacket. Superfine wool. Two silver pennies a yard.
"She fell into the well?"
"Straight in and was drownded. Auntie May was hard by with a load of washing in her arms. She hasn't been the same
since, and won't go near standing water."
"Goodness." Frodo shuddered. "I didn't know that your family tree was fraught with incident; there's not a Baggins born
who hasn't died safely in his bed, Bilbo's disappearance notwithstanding nor my own father's unseemly demise. But
as I was saying before you interrupted -- Your grandmother has passed on, and in a way which can leave no doubt in
anyone's mind; why should it matter now that she was a stickler for attendance?"
If the leek seedlings had to wait until Mr. Frodo slaked his curiosity they'd be kith and kin to the shrivelled sprout in no
time. Sam supposed that he oughtn't to have mentioned Nan Gamgee, but she had a way of popping up in a
conversation that --
"You asked me --" Sam clutched his pencil to steady his nerves; it wasn't as stout as the dibber, but it would serve.
"You said you hadn't noticed me going on holiday afore, and I said I must have done whether you noticed or not 'cos
Nan was a stickler. I can't say why it should matter, but habits are cobwebs at first and cables at last, as Uncle Andy
was wont to declare whenever he looked at Nan. If there was a hobbit who knew about ropes and bindings --"
"It was your Nan. Yes, I see." Frodo dismissed further explanation with a wave of his hand. "I'm still in the dark. What is
the nature of this 'Gathering'? Is it a fiddling competition? Group sheaf tossing?"
"Don't Bucklanders have Gatherings?" said Sam, astonished that a gentlehobbit whose family had lived in the
Westfarthing time out of mind could be unaware of his neighbour's doings to such an extent. Maybe if Frodo hadn't
been a staunch patron of the Green Dragon he might have caught a whiff of gossip from the oldsters who sunned
themselves at the door of the Ivy Bush. One gaffer had been heard to remark that a waggon's worth of Gamgees
heading westwards every Thrimmidge with a gaggle of Cottons in tow well nigh cleared the district. But what if Mr.
Frodo's ignorance were the effect of too many books and buttered scones on a lad already prone to solitary
introspection? Sam frowned. A broth of sorrel, plantain and chickweed would --
"I haven't the foggiest," said Frodo, glancing at his stick. It was a splendid stick, with brass joints and end tips. Sam felt
a twinge of discomfort at sight of it leaning casually by the step.
"I suppose," he said, one eye on the potting shed, "they needn't gather if they live at the Hall. There must be a frightful
crowd in the Great Dining Room of a Highday though. Plenty of games and high jinks, too, I shouldn’t wonder, if the
others resemble Mr. Merry."
"They don't all live --" Frodo's gaze followed Sam's towards the shed and his voice wavered. There was a moment's
silence as master and gardener admired Bag End's most prominent outbuilding.
"How many hobbits could squeeze inside, at a guess?" Sam was fond of games, and the shed was perfectly suited to
the sort of lark the village tweens had played at Overlithe till Jolly Cotton perched his backside on a pitchfork one fateful
night and their dads had put a stop to it. Since then it had been naught but Boggle-about-stack, winter and summer.
"It's near as big as --"
He bit his lip lest the deepest secret of the Gammidge festivities be mistakenly uncovered in the presence of an
incomer, even one who was a Baggins born and bred. As the Gaffer had warned him often and often, a fellow couldn't
be too careful where family matters were concerned.
"Sam?"
It would rain by tea-time and the list of chores had grown no shorter with the passing hours. He had lingered on the
footpath blathering to gentry while clouds formed over the White Downs, their tails lifted like a husk of coneys at sport,
and now he was trembling on the verge of an indiscretion. He turned up his collar and the words he had almost
spoken fell away.
"-- Farmer Proudfoot's byre," he finished, his face guileless.
"Hardly," Frodo said. "But if I may continue -- not all Bucklanders live at the Hall; if they did, they would find themselves
on very short commons indeed. I presume your Gathering consists of--"
"-- every Greenhand, Gamgee, Roper, and Cotton met together in our ancestral birthplace," said Sam, who had
gradually attained the ornamental outcropping of field stones by the perennial border before Frodo was able to
withdraw his attention from the ill-fated Gammidgey forebears long enough to notice the distance that yawned between
them. "I'd rather it were held at the Floating Log, where the ale is passable."
"How extraordinary," Frodo answered, hurrying to catch him up. "I have just one question."
"Yes, sir?" Sam set his hand to the latch of the potting shed door though his heart misgave him something fierce.
"Half inch gravel or one inch?"
"Half inch," said Sam, relieved that Frodo wasn't disposed to demand more than was fitting, for the sheaf toss and the
fiddles were the least of it. "I can't see to the path neither until I come back from Gammidge."
He raised the latch to end their talk and greeted his tools with a respectful nod before shrugging off his knapsack and
loosening the ragged drawstring. The shed smelled of damp earth, wood, and chicken muck, and there in one corner
was the three-legged stool with the row of hooks above it for his potato riddler, raincoat, and summer gardening hat.
The spider sat in its web beside the door jamb and a stack of earthenware pots stood ready near the window. Bless
me, he thought, this is home, not --
"You needn't do it at all, my dear," said Frodo, kicking his foot against the sill as Sam emptied his things onto the work
area. "Theuderic Bracegirdle is --"
"A cack-handed fool, aye." Sam was of the opinion that if he were to give Bag End the degree of care his master
required it would be to the detriment of the other gardens in his charge, but to surrender a Gamgee's time-honoured
duties to a road-mending Bracegirdle was a fate not to be borne. He clucked his tongue.
"He mustn't be allowed in the garden without I have charge of him, d'ye hear?" Sam gave his master a hard stare. "I
can't do it yet and that's flat, but it's a dandy notion and I'll lay the gravel as soon as may be."
He picked up the scuffle hoe and levelled it at the threshold. "You'll get a splinter in your toe if you keep on."
Frodo stepped back and his cool glance rested fleetingly on Sam, as who should say, 'I'll have a splinter in my toe if I
wish', then strayed to the array of potting trowels on the wall as though he had forgotten what else he might have said
about the path had he not been interrupted.
"The old place will be quieter than usual," he remarked, as if it were a matter of no consequence. "How many days will
you be gone?"
Bag End was already so quiet that Sam would have thought the smial abandoned had his master not ventured out-of-
doors now and then to inspect the garden and share the fruits of his reading with all and sundry. He did so more often
than formerly, and if he had been content at first to be the Mr. Baggins of Bag End--and legatee of Bilbo's reputed
wealth, as some folk said--it was evident to any hobbit with a morsel of sense that Frodo suffered from a want of
friends. The burden of Mastery at so young an age was made worse by the gaggle of striplings who hung on Frodo's
coat-tails when it suited them as they had hung on his uncle's. It was a shame.
"Ten days, if I ride in the dog cart with my Gaffer," he said, attempting to rid himself of the curious proposition which had
begun to take shape in his noddle as he had tucked his lunch box out of the way. "Nine if I go by shank's nag."
"Really?" Frodo fiddled with the latchstring as if he had never seen the mechanism until Sam would have laid his hand
on his master's to still it had he dared.
Instead, he tugged the second glove from his pocket and eyed the hat with disfavour. Broad-brimmed straw would only
tease the weather when the breeze that swirled around his ankles could draw the smudge of greyness from the Downs
by elevenses if it had the cheek. Sam's list of household chores was long, but he had risen at first light to help Old
Noakes with a damaged down-pipe, and the prospect of clambering into the loft at Bag End with a bulls-eye lantern
because a slow drip from the ceiling had stained the cover of the estate accounts was not a pleasant one. The down-
pipe had come free and dumped its load of wet leaves into Sam's outstretched arms, and doubtless he would put his
foot through the softened plaster of the loft before he had stopped the leak. He would rather trim the grass-border if the
rain held off and Frodo could set a pail on the study floor like common folk.
"Ah," he answered. "Dad has a bad hip, as you may know, and daren't walk farther than the Ivy Bush."
"Yes, I remember the bottle of liniment, but what--"
"He'd sooner go in Farmer Cotton's waggon than take our cart as he likes the fellowship, but he won't say so 'cos he
don't want me wandering alone. If he rides with the others, I'll walk." Sam shook out his raincoat and draped it over the
edge of the door. "The Cottons break their journey at the Half Butt in Tighfield where the beer is fair to middling. I won't
rattle my bones from here to Gammidge for the sake of it."
"How vexing." Frodo seemed remarkably untroubled by Sam's predicament, but something was weighing on his
tongue.
"Ten days at the start of the growing season?" he said at last. "Who will tend the garden?"
Sam shuffled his feet and glared at the hoe.
"Odo Proudfoot's great-nephew is a jobbing gardener. He's up to snuff and a pinch above, though I'd not trust him with
the oversight of a Bracegirdle." Sam pointed his thumb towards the village. "Odo is poorly and the lad is running the
poulterer's till he mends."
"I'm sorry to hear it," said Frodo, but whether he was sorry about Gaffer Proudfoot's health or sorry that his front path
would be bare of gravel for a fortnight was moot. "When do you go?"
"Monday next. You'll hardly miss me."
"Monday is short notice," Frodo said absently, his fingers tightening against the iron latch.
"Not so very short." Sam balanced on the doorstep, squinting at the muddy path and the two sets of footprints marching
back and forth from smial to gate. They had spent a busy morning.
"A stone path would be especially fine," he suggested, "if the Baggins' coffers can run to the expense." He pulled at his
earlobe while he thought of the slate flagstones he had seen in Burrfoot's Catalogue. "Begging your pardon," he
added, in case the remark had sounded insolent.
"Stone?" Frodo's lips were distracting at the best of times but irresistible when he pouted. Sam looked away.
"Aye," he said. "A stone path, properly constructed, can turn your garden from a ho-hum collection of plants into the
envy of the neighbourhood. Or so the Catalogue would have it."
"I'll bear it in mind," answered Frodo, "although I was under the impression that my collection of plants was already the
envy of the neighbourhood. No, don't protest." He brushed off Sam's declaration of steadfast devotion to Bag End's
horticultural marvels with a gesture. "I'll have nothing to occupy me for the next fortnight--"
"Naught but book-learning, letter-writing, and burning dumplings to pot," Sam mumbled as he gathered his tools.
"--since I'll be at the mercy of a second-rater from Overhill. What?"
"If you'd stand aside, sir. The leeks--" For the most part, Sam was happy to lend an ear to Frodo's running commentary
on the cares of his position, but anything that hindered his progress towards the kitchen garden was a hurdle to be
overcome before it rained.
"Not at all." Frodo dropped the latch and held the door open. "I'll resume my tour of the grounds then, shall I?"
"I s'pose," said Sam, popping behind the shed for his barrow the moment the chance offered itself. He had again
experienced an upsurge of the curious proposition and his Dad would be that put out if he heeded it.
"What's wrong?" asked Frodo, his words muffled by distance. "Stone is better than gravel, isn't it? Would you prefer to
measure the square footage of the area now so that I can order the slate when you're abroad or--"
"Aye, 'tis. And no --" Sam jerked the tarp from the barrow and lay the scuffle hoe inside. "I haven't time, as I keep telling
you."
Sam knew that his manner was testy, and that it was no one's fault but his own if he had misplaced the dibber. Yet he
was also chafed by an unconscionable desire to remove his jacket while the sun was out in spite of the Gaffer's
instructions on proper dress. Frodo had never shown the slightest awareness of Sam's clothes nor his politely bared
head, and his readiness to doff his own togs was well-known in Hobbiton. There was no reason why Sam shouldn't
expose his shirtsleeves as long as the Gaffer wasn't by, but the idea gave him the colly-wobbles. A plump sausage
pasty would settle things down, as it did whenever Tom Cotton mentioned Rosie and wedlock in the same breath. In
fact, Sam's belly was growing rounder due to the number of times May's pasties had been called into service since
Yule. He looked at his breadbasket.
"Would you trust me to measure it?" said Frodo, peering around the corner of the shed with a woeful expression which
belied the tartness of his tone.
"Measure it?" echoed Sam, hoping that he might have an opportunity to remove his jacket soonish rather than laterish.
"The path," replied Frodo. "What else should I measure? My stick is--"
"Waiting on the step," said Sam, a mite crestfallen. He plucked the wax pencil from its hiding place and reflected on his
choices. Sun won't fade it and rain won't wash it away, Master Burfoot had said when six hard-earned pennies had been
handed over and the new Shire-made mechanical wax pencil lay in Sam's pocket, wrapped in a slip of brown paper tied
with string. And so it had proven.
"Maybe I'm daft--" he said with a silent apology to his Gaffer, but if he was headed towards the ditch he might as well try
for the duck pond.
"No, you're quite right," Frodo interjected. "I left it there when your story of Mistress Roper Gamgee was nearing its
culmination."
"So you did, but I meant--" Sam took a deep breath and finished quickly, "You could walk along o' me."
"Oh." Frodo started and his eyes fell to Sam's pencil. "I thought you planned to tally the bedding plants while I
examined the cistern. I can't imagine what possible use I could be to you in the garden."
Sam groaned inwardly. A wiser hobbit would have taken advantage of Frodo's puzzlement and stifled the urge to make
his meaning clear, but as the Gaffer was fond of remarking, Sam was not that hobbit.
"You could walk with me to Gammidge, if you'd a mind," he murmured, glancing up through his fringe with the air of one
whose days in regular employment were numbered.
The furtive winks which accompanied rumours of Frodo's rambles in pursuit of elves were proof that respect for the
Master's dignity counted for little at the Green Dragon, but Sam had unbounded trust in his master's tales and kept his
own counsel. A journey across the western reaches of the Shire would be a wondrous thing, if his master could only be
content with plain hobbit company.
"My dear chap," said Frodo, just as Sam was beginning to regret the offer, "I'm a Baggins born and bred. What would
your Gaffer think?"
Sam didn't care tuppence what his Gaffer thought, though he would march through the Wednesday market stark naked
rather than admit to such a wayward opinion. A fellow of two and twenty could admire a lad as feisty and outspoken as
Mr. Frodo without his Dad's say-so, and if that same lad also sported a well-turned calf then it was no wonder the
admiration could easily--
"I can't tell," Sam managed, grasping the barrow-handles with fingers gone white from the imprint of his pencil. Dad
expected everyone to mind his place, whether he was an antique gentlehobbit who had buggered off across the
Brandywine River or a nobody like Sam who feared to get above his station. The Gaffer's views on the subject of
Frodo's presence in their midst would be expressed in no uncertain terms at the supper table that evening and again at
first breakfast, if Sam knew how many blue beans made five. Frodo's face was hard to read since the barrow was
engrossing so much of Sam's attention, but he was clearly not in the least offended by the proposal, and if he hadn't
said 'what a top-hole idea, Sam', neither had he said 'no'. Things were looking up.
Sam pushed the wheel over the lip of the path and trundled his load to the front of the shed with a lighter step. Not even
the ragging he would undergo once his sisters caught wind of the arrangement could entirely quell the hum which rose
in his breast.
"You mayn't be a Gamgee," he said, glancing back to see whether Frodo had followed him doorwards, "but unless I'm
mistaken you've a Cotton in your family tree. Most folk do hereabouts."
Sam was intent on his work now that Frodo had failed to raise any serious objections, and when the day's meals --
from the onion scones enclosed in a frayed scrap of linen to the oatcakes with cheese and bacon -- had been arranged
on the table in the shed, he would buckle down to the rest of the morning's chores and let his master ponder their
ancestry in peace.
"You astonish me," said Frodo, watching from the doorway. "There's nothing in the Baggins records to indicate a--"
"Byblow," said Sam.
"-- an irregular connexion."
"Old Cottar had offspring on both sides of the blanket." Sam gazed at the leeks on the window ledge and considered
the likelihood of finding his dibber if he turned out his pockets a second time. It might have slipped into the lining of his
jacket. He hoisted a tray. "Longo Baggins was--"
"A distant relation." Frodo stood to one side as Sam came out of the shed with his arms full and laid the seed trays in
the barrow. "I'll study Bilbo's personal records while you search for your what-do-you-call-it."
Sam straightened, the oak handles warm on his palms as he rolled the barrow in a half-circle to face the kitchen
garden.
"The estate inspection --" he began, but his master had returned to his measuring stick and was tucking the maps and
plans into his satchel.
"I'll replace Balbo's picture once the walls have been painted," said Frodo. "The Hill at Midsummer is a trifle frowsty
from the loft but it's a cut above the usual Baggins bric-a-brac. I wish Bilbo had given the oliphaunt's-foot stand to
Adelard as well as the umbrella. I nearly dropped the stand through the passage ceiling yesterday."
Sam had been sowing radishes the previous afternoon when a terrible uproar had fallen upon his ears from the roof
vent. The odds of Frodo coming to grief in his own smial were scarcely worth the interest of a serious betting hobbit,
and Sam had continued to press the fine soil over the tiny brown seeds. He frowned.
"You should have called me, sir. Those pine floorboards are dodgy. Mr. Bilbo let the smial go to wrack and ruin in his
latter years, if you don't mind --"
Frodo snorted.
"I never mind. You've been 'in and out of Bag End' since you were a nipper." His eyes wandered to the low, irregular
wall of the south front and narrowed thoughtfully. "I fear the inspection will be shorter than usual; I ought to make a
packing list. The path will have to wait on the weather in any case and I'm well aware that we need to repair the
cistern."
"A packing list?" Sam's brows rose into his hair.
"Yes," said Frodo. "A packing list. String, a card of buttons, two haporth of boiled sweets.... I'll be out of my element, of
course; a mere stranger in your midst--"
He paused expectantly.
"Oh, no, sir, not once you've--" Sam was unable to complete the sentence due to the sudden realisation that even
though his vow of secrecy might be broken in this instance, the obligation to spare his master's blushes remained.
"Yes?"
"-- met the lads," Sam concluded, lifting the barrow and hastening towards the back garden before the gathering clouds
left them hock deep in water. He stopped to contemplate Frodo's kit. "I mustn't lollygag all day, but if you need help with
t'other end of that measuring stick--"
"Are you sure?" Frodo sidled across to the barrow and nudged a seedling that had crumpled sideways against its
fellows. "Spindly beggars."
"Aye," said Sam, eager to get on with the job of grubbing and planting if only Frodo would leave off blocking the track to
the vegetable patch, "but I can't swear to it. I'll be stuck in amongst these leeks the minute I find my dibber."
"Uncomfortable position," said Frodo. "However, I was alluding to the festivities in Gamwich. My stick will return to the
study for now."
"I--" Sam tried vainly to swallow the lump in his throat. If the Gaffer were to find out that his youngest son's importunate
offer had upset the order of things at Bag End, he might pack Sam off to the Northfarthing post-haste.
"Steady on." Frodo clapped Sam's back in an affable manner, his hand lingering on the worn twill. "I'd stay behind
rather than put you to any bother, as I hope you know."
"If I have to listen to my sisters natter from here to yon," said Sam in a small voice, "I'll go off the hooks."
"I was spared the burden of sisters," replied Frodo, "but Aunt Dora Baggins has done her best to make up for it." He
glanced at his watch. "I want to consult Mushrooms of the Westfarthing and prepare a route map; I'd hate to miss the
sights through lack of planning. Perhaps we could discuss it later over a cup of tea?"
Although Sam was unfamiliar with any sights worth mentioning between Bywater and Gammidge, he wasn't averse to a
hot beverage at fourses. If he could prevent his master from straying into Rushock Bog in search of puffballs, he would
endure any number of unnecessary diversions.
"Happen we might, if --"
"-- you get those blasted leeks in the ground before it rains." Frodo buckled his satchel, and drew the strap across his
shoulder. "I have the distinct impression that you think me unmindful of your work."
"No, sir," said Sam, who had noticed the slim figure at the window on several occasions in recent weeks but was too
polite to remark on it. "If you'll let me eat my slice of lardy cake in the kitchen... A fellow has to maintain his strength."
"By all means," said Frodo, looking at Sam's dirty bare legs, his patched breeches and straining weskit. "You may eat
whatever you fancy in my kitchen."
He smiled, his dark eyes warm.
"Ah," said Sam. He hoisted the barrow a little higher. "Thankee, Mr. Frodo."
"No. Thank you, Sam. This journey will be the perfect distraction from the cares of a shabby genteel landlord." He
turned to the door. "Come in at four unless I call you first."
Sam would have assured his master that no one who bought his clothing from the gentlehobbit's outfitters in Michel
Delving could be regarded as 'shabby', but Frodo's attention was bent on his measuring stick and Sam resigned
himself to the day's work without further ado.
