Anpassal 2
The weather showed every sign of holding fair, and when the dibber made its appearance at second breakfast, nestled
athwart the sausage pasty and a bottle of small beer, Sam gave it a severe reprimand and proceeded to acquaint it with
the leeks. As he planted the seedlings in long rows between the onions and the broad beans, he paused now and
again to study the sky and consider the ways in which he and Frodo could liven up the journey from Hobbiton to
Gammidge. If he had read his master aright, there would be scant objection to a shared blanket during the colder
nights, and although it was doubtful whether Frodo would allow Sam to take his measure on the open ground this side
of Tighfield, he might overlook a friendly arm around his middle, at least on the first occasion. On the other hand, if Sam
were mistaken about Frodo's interest, he would find himself without a position or relegated to the Widow's garden for
the summer months. The notion that he might spend the season staring up at Bag End from the top of Bagshot Row
was more than he could bear.
He shoved the dibber into his tool belt and frowned at the leeks. He wasn't over fond of the flavour, but Mr. Bilbo's prize
blanch leeks were second only to taters in the Gaffer's heart. Nine inches round and eighteen to the button they'd been
last year, thanks in no small part to Sam's skill at collaring. Length without girth is no use at all as his Dad would --
"Pig's foot," said Sam, whose whistle was so dry after an hour's labour that the image of a stout leek in a cardboard
collar made his throat close. Mushrooms of the Westfarthing, a copy of which had been left for him by Bilbo with the
understanding that he would expand the cultivation of the higher fungi at Bag End, could surely be brought to bear upon
the situation. A short walk through Tup Hag Wood in search of Slippery Jacks and a brief lesson on their merits would
turn the ramble westwards into an opportunity for similar instruction at every wayside marker and watering-place.
His gaze drifted to the slumped form of the canvas knapsack which rested in the shadow behind the potting shed door
and his thoughts to the stuffed spring merkel wrapped in a square of butcher's paper. Half ten was near enough to
elevenses by hobbit reckoning and a quick consultation with his belly convinced him that a smatch of something now
wouldn't go amiss. While it was true that his chores at Bag End would proceed with greater dispatch were he not
bound by Shire custom to stop seven times a day for drink and vittles, the unavoidable meals gave him an excuse to sit
by the porch in the hope of a chance encounter with his master. For once in a long while, usually when the weather
was inclement, Frodo would invite him into the smial to share a pot of tea and a morsel of conversation. And somehow,
even with these pleasant interruptions, and the less welcome but more frequent ones from the Gaffer, Sam found time
to complete his round of seasonal work. The small matter of needing to be fed was thus not worth a moment's
concern; the leeks would be in the ground by week's end and the soil turned in preparation for the seedling tomatoes.
He would plant them out in a fortnight if he still had gainful employment at Bag End.
On this particular morning, the leeward side of the garden shed, warmed as it was by the unexpected sunshine and
sheltered from prevailing winds, was a more comfortable spot than the kitchen entrance to ponder their expedition to
Gammidge. The means by which he might describe the nature of the Gamgee customs without placing himself in an
unfavourable light was much on his mind, as was the scolding he would receive when news of his impertinence
reached Number 3. He was all too aware, despite his protestations to Frodo, that no amount of effort could shake a
Cotton byblow from the Baggins family tree; not even the Gaffer would believe it.
As a result of his wool-gathering and the considerable allure of the bacon-stuffed mushroom, Sam neither saw nor
sought any sign of his master during the course of elevenses. However, it seemed that Frodo had found cause to sally
forth on a sudden errand in spite of his maps and lists, for at twenty to the hour Sam's daydream was broken by the
irritable rasp of unoiled hinges and the subsequent clatter of the garden gate. He sprang to his feet with the last
fragments of the merkel clutched between his fingers and watched with interest as the mop of unruly curls made its
way across the party field towards Bagshot Row. Since Gaffer Gamgee was no doubt immersed in a game of darts at
the Ivy Bush, Frodo could do little damage in that quarter, but a tremor of misgiving shook Sam nonetheless. If his
master were to come upon May in high dudgeon --
"Buggerlugs," he muttered, for lack of a stronger oath to express his dismay. "That's torn it."
His solitary appraisal of a first class merkel having been spoiled willy-nilly, he folded the scrap of brown paper into his
knapsack, brushed the crumbs from his breeches, and returned to the leek rows in anticipation of an early lunch. By
noontide he had hoed off the weeds, lifted the daffodils, made a beginning on the nasturtians, and was ready for a
generous meal of cold baked beans and barley bread when he noticed that a great gust of steam was pouring from the
kitchen vent to a degree quite beyond his power to explain. He wondered if Frodo had left the copper to heat in his
absence, and as he paused to stare at this anomaly, leaning on his hoe in the shade of the wisteria, the hobbit in
question appeared from the lane with a bulky parcel beneath his arm and a pained expression pinching the bridge of
his nose.
"Tea," said Frodo and, with a nod at Sam who stood half-hidden by the drooping branches, vanished in the direction of
the kitchen entrance.
Sam had planned to eat his lunch, and his lardy cake too, prior to tackling the subject of mushroom-gathering in Tup
Hag Wood. The prospect of working until fourses with no more than a cup of tea in his stomach was so dismal that he
spent ten minutes pulling groundsel from the north border before he could bring himself to consider whether his
master had indeed meant him to forego his bread and beans in favour of tea in the smial. Perhaps Frodo's mention of
'tea' had been a simple observation of the kind one might make about the weather. 'Parky morning, sir, if I may venture
an opinion.' 'You're always venturing opinions, Sam. Tea, I think.'
Mr. Bilbo's days had been punctuated by lashings of milky tea and his nephew had acquired the habit, although Sam
had a preference for Thistletoe's stout when he could get it. It was also possible that Frodo's invitation to eat whatever
he fancied in the kitchen had implied something else altogether, because Sam thought -- he thought --
"Sam?"
He dropped the weeder into his bucket and glanced back in what he trusted was a deferential manner worthy of the
Gaffer.
"Aye, sir?"
Frodo looked as if he had been in a dog hotter, or would have done had there been any dogs hereabouts. He was a
trifle pasty around the eyes and his hair lay in tight ringlets against his shirt collar. He had doffed his jacket, his weskit
was unbuttoned, and there was a smear of white powder on his wrist.
"Would you step inside?" he said, gripping the door frame as though his knees were about to give out. "I hate to be a
nuisance, but I need a second pair of hands and possibly a mop. Do you remember that nursery tale of the wizard's
apprentice? I leave the smial for five minutes -- "
"The grass wants a trim," said Sam, unwilling to be hasty when the slant of early afternoon light on his master's bared
throat was so sweet to the eyes. "My Gaffer would thrash me if --"
"Master Hamfast has never laid a finger on you." Frodo assessed the garden with an expertise born of long
acquaintance. "The grass won't march down the Hill until tomorrow but the kitchen is awash with laundry at this very
moment. Sam?"
"Our Mari --" Sam began, aware that Frodo had a disinclination to household chores of the more homely sort and that,
left to his own devices, he would drag about the smial all day in a mended nightshirt rather than boil his own linens.
"I asked Marigold if she could do my things before Monday and she said: 'Naw, it's snarly t'day, sir, and ah's that badly. I
can tak nowt.' Did she -- ?"
"She meant 'no', Mr. Frodo, and she won't do them tomorrow neither. It's bad luck to launder on a Friday. Rose
Greenhand, who was Tom Cotton's great-grandmother and aunt to Old Holman, washed on a Friday and was swept
downstream one spring when The Water was in full spate."
Frodo raised an eyebrow. "Your family is prone to mishap. Is it safe to journey with you?"
"Safe as smials," said Sam, striking the dirt from his gloves and shoving them into a back pocket. "I take after my
mam."
"Fair as a lily, according to Bilbo, who wasn't given to hyperbole. Be that as it may --" he continued, as Sam hid his
blushes behind the purple buddleia, "-- in the absence of a decent laundress, two hundred handkerchiefs and several
pairs of clean cuffs is reasonable for a nine day outing, wouldn't you say? Bilbo forgot his handkerchief and would have
gone without if it hadn't been for Gandalf's presence of mind."
"It was a rum go," said Sam, quite certain that Gandalf's presence of mind would never have extended to such an
immense load of personal items. "My lunch -- "
"It's too early for lunch," said Frodo, turning into the smial. "We'll have a cup of tea once you've sorted the laundry. Do
come in."
"Lumme," muttered Sam, shocked by this ready dismissal of food. His knowledge of wash-day was limited to the
fetching of water in quantity, but he could scarce admit to his dearth of experience in the face of Frodo's need for
assistance. The scent of wet linen had become so marked that it was evident a good ten paces from the front door.
"Tea --"
"-- will be just the ticket when we're done," replied Frodo. He gestured at the basin of warm water in the porch. "If you'd
leave off holding that bucketful of weeds and wipe your feet -- "
"Aye, sir," said Sam, flicking the groundsel from his toes and setting the pail aside. "If it's all the same, I'll hang my hat
on the coat peg next to yours. Halfred left his cap by the runner bean frame and an earwig -- "
"I'm sure it did," said Frodo, hastening down the passage while Sam followed shortly after in a flurry of damp footprints.
The kitchen was as neat as ninepence and by no means awash, although Frodo had thrown his jacket on the settle
and there was a pair of tongs below the table.
"I might have used too much soap." Frodo tilted his head towards the range and Sam leaned forward to inspect the
tangle of lawn handkerchiefs and shirt cuffs swirling fitfully in the copper. "What do you think?"
Sam was disinclined to giving his opinion on domestic matters even when expressly called upon as he seldom
ventured into the wash-house at Number 3 and had scant knowledge of soap, dolly pegs, or ironing boards, but he
knew that if there was a gift to the boiling of nose-wipers it hadn't been bestowed on Frodo.
"Maybe you should give 'em a rinse," he offered. "They reek summat awful."
Frodo sighed. "That much is obvious. I borrowed a cup of lavender powder from the Widow Rumble and my kitchen
smells like a knocking shop. As will I, if these handkerchiefs travel to Gamwich and back in my knapsack."
"Never," objected Sam, his ear tips suffused with warmth on his master's behalf. "An afternoon stretched flat on the
privet should do the trick. Or I could take them home tonight and peg them on the washing line."
The sight of two hundred handkerchiefs in the garden at Number 3 would raise some concerns in Hobbiton and
Bywater over the master's health but no one would find it strange that a Baggins would be the owner of so many clouts.
"One must smell of something, I suppose," continued Frodo, casting another of those meaning looks at Sam's second
best suit of clothes. "Cousin Bilbo favoured pipe smoke and mixed biscuits. If I don't take after him in that regard, to
what can I aspire beyond a hint of lavender in my drawers? Do I take after him?"
"You'd have to ask our Marigold, sir. I daren't offer an opinion."
His sisters had often remarked on the fine quality of the master's linens but had said nothing of their smell; it would
have been unseemly. Nevertheless, it was Sam's belief that not even a copper full of wet hankies or a hundredweight
of washing powder could hide the spicy fragrance of sweet briar which clung to Frodo wherever he went. And if Sam
were able to lure him into Tup Hag Wood at nightfall, they would be far too busy with what lay hidden in each other's
drawers to worry about lavender.
"'Cept Mari suffers from catarrh," he added, his eyes on the copper but his mind on Frodo's unmentionables. "She
wouldn't know your underlinens from the Widow Rumble's apron, begging your pardon."
"Catarrh might be a blessing in this case," said Frodo, picking up the tongs and directing them at the seething mass.
"I've been known to have a touch of it myself when the may is in blossom. I'd rather not overburden my knapsack, but I
should hate to be ten leagues from a decent haberdasher's with a runny nose and no hankie. Gamwich will have
limited amenities, I expect."
Sam was content with a square of checked gingham or a bit of nappy flannel and would have been glad to share it in a
pinch if only he could decide how ten square inches of homespun could be made to stand in for two hundred
hand-embroidered lawn wipes.
"I daren't -- "
Frodo's lips quirked. "I might almost think you had no opinions at all except that I've heard you holding forth at the Ivy
Bush on the price of Longbottom Leaf and you were quite definite just now about your preference for stone over gravel."
Sam stared at the murky liquid, the frill of white foam on the lip of the copper, and the linens surfacing like potato
dumplings in a pot of chicken broth. He knew more about dumplings than he did about yard goods and wasn't
prepared to hazard a guess on amenities no matter what the provocation. He sighed.
"Gentlehobbits' furnishings are beyond my ken, sir. The old master got there and back with less than a gross of
hankies, and that's a fact."
"So he did, and loved to tell the tale again and again. The question before us," said Frodo with a flourish of the tongs,
"is whether I should boil them for another ten minutes or leave you to give them a rinse in this pot of clean water while I
butter some bread for our tea?
Sam shrugged. "They'll need a second rinse and a run through the mangle or they won't dry in this weather. You could
hang 'em by the fire o' course but the kitchen would smell like the Gammidge sweat house and -- "
"I beg your pardon?" interrupted Frodo. "The Gammidge sweat house?"
"It's a figure of speech," said Sam, clearing a speck of merkel from his throat. "What they call a -- "
"Sa-a-a-m?"
"Didn't I tell you about our sweat house, Mr. Frodo? It's very old and Cousin Harding --"
"I don't want to hear about Harding Gamgee," said Frodo, tapping the middle button of Sam's weskit with the tongs.
"Why would a hobbit walk twenty leagues to Gamwich when he can sweat in the comfort and privacy of his own house?
I'm sweating enough for two and I've scarcely left the kitchen all morning. Or am I wrong in thinking that this sweat
house plays a key role in your family gathering?"
"Naw," said Sam, afraid that his resolve to stay quiet had broken on the rocks of Frodo's wits and his own loose tongue.
"Happen you ain't. Gammidgeys live in smials like regular folk, and sweat in 'em, too, I shouldn't wonder, or would do if
they hadn't moved to Tighfield a hundred years ago and become Ropers. Our sweat house has a metal furnace and
benches round the --"
"Benches?" Frodo's tone was one of affected disinterest. "Would it be similar to Mistress Gildenfoot's establishment in
Bywater? If so, you're wrong about its being a Gamwich custom. You see, Great-Great-Grandfather Balbo of the
yellowed varnish --"
"Bless me," interjected Sam, astonished by the suggestion that Harding would have the wherewithal to handle frequent
custom at his age. "Gammidge has no sporting house, nor ever did, to my knowledge. There's one in Tighfield though,
with fringed settees and a ceiling lantern as big as a pumpkin. Or so the lads tell me."
He might have discovered the truth of the rumours had he been able to give his Dad the slip on their last visit to Uncle
Andwise, but he had spent his days in the rope-walk with Anson and his evenings at the Half Butt Inn discussing a pint
pot of cider under the Gaffer's watchful eye.
"I'm stunned," said Frodo. "I'd always assumed that Westmarch hobbits were forced to make their own entertainment.
This sweat house --"
"-- is a certain remedy for ague, fever, croup and the itch, according to our Halfred," finished Sam, who was content to be
entertained by his master anywhere between Hobbiton and the Bounds, fringed settee or no.
"Why a sweat house in Gamwich when a cure for the itch is nearer at hand?" replied Frodo. "Aunt Dora assures me
that an occasional visit to Mistress Gildenfoot's will suffice for a single hobbit of leisure, although what a spinster of five
score knows of the matter is a mystery to me. I've ignored her letters because I don't -- that is to say -- " He bent his
gaze to the copper. "My itch is of a different sort."
Sam tried to look sympathetic but as he had no idea how to scratch Frodo's itch without losing his position he feared
that he was not altogether successful.
"The sweat house is a kind of dry bath, Mr. Frodo. There's none like it in Bywater, nor Buckland neither if I'm not
mistaken. In Wiseman's day it was a smial on the banks of the Little Trickle, with heated stones over a wood fire and
no chimney. But Rose Greenhand didn't care for the smoke and -- "
"This was before she was swept downstream, I take it?"
"Aye," said Sam, frowning slightly. "Old Gammidgey -- Hob Gammidge, as he was then -- built a house with a proper
furnace and it stands in Harding's back garden to this day, though some claim to miss the smell of the pine logs.
Gaffer says such folk are cross as two sticks by nature."
"I'd just as soon walk to the Green Dragon and drink a mug of best bitter with my friends when I'm in the mood for a
smoke," said Frodo, inching closer to the jumble of linens. The rising steam slicked his face with moisture and twisted
his dark hair into kiss curls on his forehead. He glanced at Sam. "Is lavender soap used in the sweat house?"
Sam shook his head, admiring the sparkle of water on Frodo's lashes. "No soap at all."
"What end does it serve?" asked Frodo. "A dry bath, that is, for soap undoubtedly serves some end and I trust that
Harding is acquainted with it. I can appreciate the curative properties of steam, but I have yet to meet an ague or a fever
that could resist a glass of ginger cordial and a brisk walk."
"The walk to and from the steam house is brisk when a nor'easter is blowing," said Sam, remembering how his cods
had shrivelled up at last year's get-together. "So when the eldest gaffer has prepared the whisks we --"
"Ball whisks or sauce whisks?" said Frodo as he shifted the first of the wet handkerchiefs to the cold water tub. "I'm not
surprised that food would be involved at some point, but I'd recommend --"
"Neither, sir. They're made of birch twigs and lengths of twine."
"My dear Sam!" cried Frodo, dropping the tongs in his excitement. "We've been talking at cross-purposes for the past
five minutes. Mistress Gildenfoot uses willow, I believe, but the principle is the same. I'd hoped that your steam house
might form part of my new book on Westfarthing customs but it's turned out to be a commonplace business after all.
Gamwich, as I said earlier, is a long way to go for pleasure of that sort."
"There's no pleasure 'of that sort' to be had in the sweat house. We slap ourselves with birch twigs to make the blood
rise in our -- "
Frodo snorted. "I could tell you a horrifying tale of Lotho, a willow withe, and a pot of strawberry conserve. Remind me
when I've finished the laundry."
"I'd rather not hear it." Sam had enough trouble at the prospect of him and Frodo sitting cheek by cheek for half an hour
without the spectre of a Sackville-Baggins coming between them. "Mr. Lotho is welcome to his amusements but you
won't find any in the Gammidge sweat house. The whisks make the blood rise in our limbs, I meant to say; I wouldn't
know of any other use."
"I stand corrected," said Frodo, a twinkle in his eyes as he returned to his work. "What happens next?"
"We sit in the altogether until someone faints from the heat," replied Sam, at a loss to explain the benefits of communal
steaming to a hobbit who had been brought up at haphazard by a bachelor cousin. "'Tis fearful hot in the sweat house
and if we forget ourselves in the thrill of the moment a gaffer unaccustomed to stimulation might -- "
"The thrill of a rough wooden bench should be a novel experience," said Frodo quickly. He tossed the last of the
handkerchiefs into the rinse water and pouted at the unfortunate result. Sam had rarely seen so many scraps of linen
crowded into such a small container; there was scarce room for the tongs
"I mustn't neglect to take notes if I can find somewhere to keep my pencil," continued Frodo, poking idly at the laundry.
"Do you carry him off once he's fainted?"
"In a manner o' speaking," said Sam, who had begun to question why his master had wanted a second pair of hands
when he was as adept as any Baggins at making chit-chat while doing his own housework. "We take a plunge in the
duck pond and then we broach a barrel of ale. He soon comes round."
"Thank goodness, but -- " Frodo stared at Sam as though he had only just noticed him. "Is swimming one more
Gamgee custom hitherto unknown to me?"
"I said naught about swimming, Mr. Frodo. The pond is no deeper than a pig trough."
"I'm relieved to hear it. Would you mind if I mentioned your name in the acknowledgements? I fancied the title, Natural
History and Antiquities of the Westfarthing, but you might prefer An Excursion to Tighfield with An Account of a Curious
Bathing Custom by S. Gamgee."
"I'd as soon be nameless. My gaffer -- "
"Doubtless. But tell me if I've understood you correctly." He aimed the tongs at Sam. "Harding Gammidge has a small
wooden outbuilding in his --"
"Naw. It's almost as large as Farmer Newbold's pig barn," said Sam, studying the arrangement of pans with feigned
interest so that Frodo might have time to consider the magnificence of the family holdings. "There's a mort o' Gamgees
in the Westfarthing."
"Harding Gammidge," said Frodo, with an aggrieved look at his soapy linens and another at Sam, "has a remarkably
capacious wooden building in his back garden which is used every spring to --" He paused. "What do Gamgees do the
rest of the year?"
"We bathe in hot water same as normal folk."
"I should hope so. Indoor plumbing at home is worth any number of cold baths at twenty leagues distance. One is
spared the inconvenience of marching to the pond like a line of cows coming in to be milked."
Sam had no familiarity with indoor plumbing and a hot bath was invariably the end result of much labour but a tin tub in
the kitchen was certainly preferable to the duck pond in Gammidge.
"Not a line, sir. We form a throng and move in haste because of the cold."
"Do you, indeed? I look forward to observing what must surely be an ancient mating custom."
"Mating custom?" Sam hadn't thought of it in that light although he had already decided that if he and his master failed
at an understanding before they reached Gammidge, the steam house would provide a splendid opportunity for Frodo
to see the ample goods he had on offer. "Who would have hankered after Wiseman Gamwich?"
"I said nothing whatsoever about Wiseman," snapped Frodo, "but as you're here in my kitchen he was clearly the apple
of someone's eye. Why else would your family pursue such a tiresome custom unless it served a useful purpose?"
Sam nodded.
"I reckon it does, but the sweat house isn't as popular as it once was since Wending, who was a grandson of
Wiseman's brother, Hoarfoot, was taken by a fit of the ague when he argued with Frollo Brown at the door of the
changing room. Arguments are frowned on because -- " He bit his lip and silently hummed a few bars of The Bonny
Hawthorn to clear his head. "-- because Harding won't have it."
"Neither would I. The scuffle with Sancho Proudfoot caused considerable damage to my pantry; the plaster still hasn't
been repaired. I can only imagine what it must be like to have a horde of Gamgees and Cottons fighting in the back
garden."
"Aye, well --" Sam had never fought in the garden but he had tussled with Halfred in the kitchen at Number 3 on more
than one occasion. A friendly scrap between kin was nothing like the unseemly carryings-on after the Party. "Wending
was accursed for his bickering ways and Frollo caught the mump from a nevvy and died last winter."
"I'm sorry to hear it," said Frodo, "although it's hardly surprising that a hobbit would catch the ague while standing naked
in a chicken yard. That aside, why is the sweat house less popular since Wending and Frollo squabbled?"
"Folk were slow to believe in the curse till Wending was struck down on the threshold. No one wants to share a harsh
word now lest --"
"Oh come, my dear Sam!" cried Frodo, lowering the tongs and turning his attention to the wash. "That's laying it on a bit
thick. Why would anyone be cursed for a disagreement? And why, more to the point, didn't you tell me to use a larger
tub for my hankies?"
"You didn't ask," said Sam, bending over to examine the motley assortment. He had as little skill with fine linen as with
laundry soap but he was pleased to have their conversation take a different course; if he were to flout the Gaffer's need
for secrecy twice in one day he would pay the fiddler at supper. "Besides, I was knee-deep in nasturtians."
"I suppose you were." Frodo drew a cuff from the mixture and let it spin idly for a moment before dropping it back into
the basin. "Doesn't Marigold add something to the water?"
"Gammer Birtwhistle's Bluing," said Sam, watching a bead of grey froth soak into the quarry tiles. He rubbed at it with
his toe. "It'll take more than one rinse and a bag of smalt to whiten that lot."
"I fear you're right," replied Frodo. "I may have to muddle along with yellowed cuffs and dirty handkerchiefs. Do we have
any bluing?"
"I don't know, sir." Sam was on intimate terms with the garden shed and the beer cellar but he was unfamiliar with the
contents of the storage pantries. It was likely that old Mr. Bilbo had amassed a great number of peculiar things, but
where they might be found was another matter. "I'll have a look for it when I fetch the big wash tub. Where -- ?"
Frodo flung the tongs onto the sideboard and collapsed into his chair with a despairing moan. "I could be wrong, but
the bay laurel by the kitchen door appears to be using it as a planter."
"So it does," said Sam, who had seen his Gaffer prune the tree last autumn. He patted Frodo on the shoulder and
hastily stepped towards the door. "Why don't I run home and borrow one from Marigold? I won't be a jiffy."
She would give him an earful about gentlehobbits who laundered on a Friday and before the night was out every lass in
Hobbiton would know that Mr. Frodo Baggins was a-walking to Gammidge with young Samwise the gardener.
"Why was he angry in the changing room?" asked Frodo, remembering his place in their talk as he rose again to put the
kettle on the hob. He took a pair of napkins from the dresser and began to set the table as Sam had seen him do many
times when Bilbo was at home.
"Frollo Brown was second cousin to Mistress Cotton and not a Gamgee in any wise," said Sam. "When he shoved
ahead of the others in the porch, he was told by Wending to mend his manners. Oaths were uttered and they'd have
come to blows 'cept Harding told them --"
" -- he wouldn't have it." Frodo grimaced. "Harding and I will not be the best of friends, I fear. Will he object to my
presence?"
"My Gaffer won't hear aught spoken against a Baggins of Bag End. You can't help not being a Gamgee, if you don't
mind me saying so."
"Not at all," said Frodo. "I might be able to produce a spurious Gamgee ancestor, but from what you've said I suspect
that Harding would notice the counterfeit." He pointed to the rinse tub. "On the whole, I'd rather he noticed my ancestry
than my linens."
"The hankies will be right as rain when you've ironed out the wrinkles," answered Sam. "And you won't be wearing cuffs
in the steam house. Everyone has a clean square of checked gingham to sit upon and a --"
"Quite," said Frodo, spooning a generous measure of tea into the pot and cocking his head at Sam. "But how did
Harding come to be in possession of several dozen laundered tea towels if Gamwich has no amenities?"
"We bring them with us. Hand-made for the gathering by a guild of Hobbiton lasses sworn to --"
"You're pulling my leg," said Frodo. He chose a loaf from the breadbox and for a brief spell the silence was broken only
by the murmur of the simmering kettle and the clink of cutlery.
"Perhaps I'll wait at the inn while you gambol in the altogether and whisk yourselves with birch twigs," he continued
when the table had been laid with slices of buttered bread and a jar of gooseberry jam.
"I'm sorry," replied Sam, bidding farewell to any chance of a quiet cuppa with his master once Frodo realised that more
hardship was involved in walking to Gammidge than sore feet and short commons. "There's no inn west of Tighfield.
Nary a one."
"Ah," said Frodo with a remarkable degree of calm under the circumstances. "I see. So I'm to give up hope of a
comfortable bed after three days of traipsing through mud and bracken in exchange for the dubious pleasure of sitting
naked in a ramshackle outbuilding with every Cotton, Greenhand, Roper and Gamgee between the Westmarch and the
River?"
"Summat like that," muttered Sam. It sounded dafter than a bag of doorknobs when put that way but the pleasure of a
snug steam house on a frosty spring day was not to be sneezed at. "The Ropers bring tents and vittles from Tighfield.
There's a bonfire with baked taters, and kissing behind the waggons, and Suck and Blow."
The kettle gave a shrill pop and a puff of steam issued from the spout.
"I must have misheard," said Frodo, as he poured a dollop of cream into each cup with a hand which shook a little from
the unaccustomed laundering. "What did you say at the end?"
"It's a game, sir, akin to Snapdragon or Spin the Bottle, only with a scrap of card and a powerful amount of suction. The
card passes around the circle -- " Sam fished a seed packet from his waistband and held it to his lips. " -- like so, until
someone lets go of it. The lass next to me -- Rose Cotton, it was -- kept dropping it a-purpose, or so Tom said. You
wouldn't believe the carry-on."
"Don't be a ninnyhammer," said Frodo, staring at Sam's mouth as if he had just been struck a blow on the head. "I
would have no trouble believing it."
Sam, somewhat abashed by this admission of having been gulled by a Cotton, put the seeds in his breast pocket and
reached for the door handle. "My lips were chapped from the wind and I had a cramp in my left --"
"It occurs to me," said Frodo, setting his arms akimbo and facing down the laundry tub as if it were a stray mongrel
which had invaded Bag End, "that the bother I've had with these blasted hankies and the sheer wretchedness of the
Westmarch in mid-May will have been worth it if I can prevent Rose Cotton from causing further harm to your character."
"'Tweren't my character, Mr. Frodo, so much as my buttocks. The ground was cold as a frosted frog and by the time the
sucking and blowing was done I could barely rise to my feet, I was that stiff."
"Thank you for the account," said Frodo. "I feel vastly reassured. If Marigold agrees to iron these once they've been
mangled and dried on the privet, I can face whatever misery and embarrassment await us in Gamwich. What do you
say?"
"Happen she will, sir, but you needn't be discomfited. If you'd rather play Pin the Tail on the Donkey, no one will mind.
Suck and Blow isn't for everyone."
"I'm all too aware of that." Frodo turned back his wilting shirtsleeves and picked up a towel to lift the kettle off the hob.
"We can discuss it on the way to Gamwich. Meanwhile, there's a pot of tea to be shared and if you'd care to bring your
lunch --"
"Thankee, Mr. Frodo. I'll be there and back in a trice," said Sam and, in the conviction that he had escaped the lair of a
fire-drake without being singed overmuch, he hurried away to Bagshot Row.
athwart the sausage pasty and a bottle of small beer, Sam gave it a severe reprimand and proceeded to acquaint it with
the leeks. As he planted the seedlings in long rows between the onions and the broad beans, he paused now and
again to study the sky and consider the ways in which he and Frodo could liven up the journey from Hobbiton to
Gammidge. If he had read his master aright, there would be scant objection to a shared blanket during the colder
nights, and although it was doubtful whether Frodo would allow Sam to take his measure on the open ground this side
of Tighfield, he might overlook a friendly arm around his middle, at least on the first occasion. On the other hand, if Sam
were mistaken about Frodo's interest, he would find himself without a position or relegated to the Widow's garden for
the summer months. The notion that he might spend the season staring up at Bag End from the top of Bagshot Row
was more than he could bear.
He shoved the dibber into his tool belt and frowned at the leeks. He wasn't over fond of the flavour, but Mr. Bilbo's prize
blanch leeks were second only to taters in the Gaffer's heart. Nine inches round and eighteen to the button they'd been
last year, thanks in no small part to Sam's skill at collaring. Length without girth is no use at all as his Dad would --
"Pig's foot," said Sam, whose whistle was so dry after an hour's labour that the image of a stout leek in a cardboard
collar made his throat close. Mushrooms of the Westfarthing, a copy of which had been left for him by Bilbo with the
understanding that he would expand the cultivation of the higher fungi at Bag End, could surely be brought to bear upon
the situation. A short walk through Tup Hag Wood in search of Slippery Jacks and a brief lesson on their merits would
turn the ramble westwards into an opportunity for similar instruction at every wayside marker and watering-place.
His gaze drifted to the slumped form of the canvas knapsack which rested in the shadow behind the potting shed door
and his thoughts to the stuffed spring merkel wrapped in a square of butcher's paper. Half ten was near enough to
elevenses by hobbit reckoning and a quick consultation with his belly convinced him that a smatch of something now
wouldn't go amiss. While it was true that his chores at Bag End would proceed with greater dispatch were he not
bound by Shire custom to stop seven times a day for drink and vittles, the unavoidable meals gave him an excuse to sit
by the porch in the hope of a chance encounter with his master. For once in a long while, usually when the weather
was inclement, Frodo would invite him into the smial to share a pot of tea and a morsel of conversation. And somehow,
even with these pleasant interruptions, and the less welcome but more frequent ones from the Gaffer, Sam found time
to complete his round of seasonal work. The small matter of needing to be fed was thus not worth a moment's
concern; the leeks would be in the ground by week's end and the soil turned in preparation for the seedling tomatoes.
He would plant them out in a fortnight if he still had gainful employment at Bag End.
On this particular morning, the leeward side of the garden shed, warmed as it was by the unexpected sunshine and
sheltered from prevailing winds, was a more comfortable spot than the kitchen entrance to ponder their expedition to
Gammidge. The means by which he might describe the nature of the Gamgee customs without placing himself in an
unfavourable light was much on his mind, as was the scolding he would receive when news of his impertinence
reached Number 3. He was all too aware, despite his protestations to Frodo, that no amount of effort could shake a
Cotton byblow from the Baggins family tree; not even the Gaffer would believe it.
As a result of his wool-gathering and the considerable allure of the bacon-stuffed mushroom, Sam neither saw nor
sought any sign of his master during the course of elevenses. However, it seemed that Frodo had found cause to sally
forth on a sudden errand in spite of his maps and lists, for at twenty to the hour Sam's daydream was broken by the
irritable rasp of unoiled hinges and the subsequent clatter of the garden gate. He sprang to his feet with the last
fragments of the merkel clutched between his fingers and watched with interest as the mop of unruly curls made its
way across the party field towards Bagshot Row. Since Gaffer Gamgee was no doubt immersed in a game of darts at
the Ivy Bush, Frodo could do little damage in that quarter, but a tremor of misgiving shook Sam nonetheless. If his
master were to come upon May in high dudgeon --
"Buggerlugs," he muttered, for lack of a stronger oath to express his dismay. "That's torn it."
His solitary appraisal of a first class merkel having been spoiled willy-nilly, he folded the scrap of brown paper into his
knapsack, brushed the crumbs from his breeches, and returned to the leek rows in anticipation of an early lunch. By
noontide he had hoed off the weeds, lifted the daffodils, made a beginning on the nasturtians, and was ready for a
generous meal of cold baked beans and barley bread when he noticed that a great gust of steam was pouring from the
kitchen vent to a degree quite beyond his power to explain. He wondered if Frodo had left the copper to heat in his
absence, and as he paused to stare at this anomaly, leaning on his hoe in the shade of the wisteria, the hobbit in
question appeared from the lane with a bulky parcel beneath his arm and a pained expression pinching the bridge of
his nose.
"Tea," said Frodo and, with a nod at Sam who stood half-hidden by the drooping branches, vanished in the direction of
the kitchen entrance.
Sam had planned to eat his lunch, and his lardy cake too, prior to tackling the subject of mushroom-gathering in Tup
Hag Wood. The prospect of working until fourses with no more than a cup of tea in his stomach was so dismal that he
spent ten minutes pulling groundsel from the north border before he could bring himself to consider whether his
master had indeed meant him to forego his bread and beans in favour of tea in the smial. Perhaps Frodo's mention of
'tea' had been a simple observation of the kind one might make about the weather. 'Parky morning, sir, if I may venture
an opinion.' 'You're always venturing opinions, Sam. Tea, I think.'
Mr. Bilbo's days had been punctuated by lashings of milky tea and his nephew had acquired the habit, although Sam
had a preference for Thistletoe's stout when he could get it. It was also possible that Frodo's invitation to eat whatever
he fancied in the kitchen had implied something else altogether, because Sam thought -- he thought --
"Sam?"
He dropped the weeder into his bucket and glanced back in what he trusted was a deferential manner worthy of the
Gaffer.
"Aye, sir?"
Frodo looked as if he had been in a dog hotter, or would have done had there been any dogs hereabouts. He was a
trifle pasty around the eyes and his hair lay in tight ringlets against his shirt collar. He had doffed his jacket, his weskit
was unbuttoned, and there was a smear of white powder on his wrist.
"Would you step inside?" he said, gripping the door frame as though his knees were about to give out. "I hate to be a
nuisance, but I need a second pair of hands and possibly a mop. Do you remember that nursery tale of the wizard's
apprentice? I leave the smial for five minutes -- "
"The grass wants a trim," said Sam, unwilling to be hasty when the slant of early afternoon light on his master's bared
throat was so sweet to the eyes. "My Gaffer would thrash me if --"
"Master Hamfast has never laid a finger on you." Frodo assessed the garden with an expertise born of long
acquaintance. "The grass won't march down the Hill until tomorrow but the kitchen is awash with laundry at this very
moment. Sam?"
"Our Mari --" Sam began, aware that Frodo had a disinclination to household chores of the more homely sort and that,
left to his own devices, he would drag about the smial all day in a mended nightshirt rather than boil his own linens.
"I asked Marigold if she could do my things before Monday and she said: 'Naw, it's snarly t'day, sir, and ah's that badly. I
can tak nowt.' Did she -- ?"
"She meant 'no', Mr. Frodo, and she won't do them tomorrow neither. It's bad luck to launder on a Friday. Rose
Greenhand, who was Tom Cotton's great-grandmother and aunt to Old Holman, washed on a Friday and was swept
downstream one spring when The Water was in full spate."
Frodo raised an eyebrow. "Your family is prone to mishap. Is it safe to journey with you?"
"Safe as smials," said Sam, striking the dirt from his gloves and shoving them into a back pocket. "I take after my
mam."
"Fair as a lily, according to Bilbo, who wasn't given to hyperbole. Be that as it may --" he continued, as Sam hid his
blushes behind the purple buddleia, "-- in the absence of a decent laundress, two hundred handkerchiefs and several
pairs of clean cuffs is reasonable for a nine day outing, wouldn't you say? Bilbo forgot his handkerchief and would have
gone without if it hadn't been for Gandalf's presence of mind."
"It was a rum go," said Sam, quite certain that Gandalf's presence of mind would never have extended to such an
immense load of personal items. "My lunch -- "
"It's too early for lunch," said Frodo, turning into the smial. "We'll have a cup of tea once you've sorted the laundry. Do
come in."
"Lumme," muttered Sam, shocked by this ready dismissal of food. His knowledge of wash-day was limited to the
fetching of water in quantity, but he could scarce admit to his dearth of experience in the face of Frodo's need for
assistance. The scent of wet linen had become so marked that it was evident a good ten paces from the front door.
"Tea --"
"-- will be just the ticket when we're done," replied Frodo. He gestured at the basin of warm water in the porch. "If you'd
leave off holding that bucketful of weeds and wipe your feet -- "
"Aye, sir," said Sam, flicking the groundsel from his toes and setting the pail aside. "If it's all the same, I'll hang my hat
on the coat peg next to yours. Halfred left his cap by the runner bean frame and an earwig -- "
"I'm sure it did," said Frodo, hastening down the passage while Sam followed shortly after in a flurry of damp footprints.
The kitchen was as neat as ninepence and by no means awash, although Frodo had thrown his jacket on the settle
and there was a pair of tongs below the table.
"I might have used too much soap." Frodo tilted his head towards the range and Sam leaned forward to inspect the
tangle of lawn handkerchiefs and shirt cuffs swirling fitfully in the copper. "What do you think?"
Sam was disinclined to giving his opinion on domestic matters even when expressly called upon as he seldom
ventured into the wash-house at Number 3 and had scant knowledge of soap, dolly pegs, or ironing boards, but he
knew that if there was a gift to the boiling of nose-wipers it hadn't been bestowed on Frodo.
"Maybe you should give 'em a rinse," he offered. "They reek summat awful."
Frodo sighed. "That much is obvious. I borrowed a cup of lavender powder from the Widow Rumble and my kitchen
smells like a knocking shop. As will I, if these handkerchiefs travel to Gamwich and back in my knapsack."
"Never," objected Sam, his ear tips suffused with warmth on his master's behalf. "An afternoon stretched flat on the
privet should do the trick. Or I could take them home tonight and peg them on the washing line."
The sight of two hundred handkerchiefs in the garden at Number 3 would raise some concerns in Hobbiton and
Bywater over the master's health but no one would find it strange that a Baggins would be the owner of so many clouts.
"One must smell of something, I suppose," continued Frodo, casting another of those meaning looks at Sam's second
best suit of clothes. "Cousin Bilbo favoured pipe smoke and mixed biscuits. If I don't take after him in that regard, to
what can I aspire beyond a hint of lavender in my drawers? Do I take after him?"
"You'd have to ask our Marigold, sir. I daren't offer an opinion."
His sisters had often remarked on the fine quality of the master's linens but had said nothing of their smell; it would
have been unseemly. Nevertheless, it was Sam's belief that not even a copper full of wet hankies or a hundredweight
of washing powder could hide the spicy fragrance of sweet briar which clung to Frodo wherever he went. And if Sam
were able to lure him into Tup Hag Wood at nightfall, they would be far too busy with what lay hidden in each other's
drawers to worry about lavender.
"'Cept Mari suffers from catarrh," he added, his eyes on the copper but his mind on Frodo's unmentionables. "She
wouldn't know your underlinens from the Widow Rumble's apron, begging your pardon."
"Catarrh might be a blessing in this case," said Frodo, picking up the tongs and directing them at the seething mass.
"I've been known to have a touch of it myself when the may is in blossom. I'd rather not overburden my knapsack, but I
should hate to be ten leagues from a decent haberdasher's with a runny nose and no hankie. Gamwich will have
limited amenities, I expect."
Sam was content with a square of checked gingham or a bit of nappy flannel and would have been glad to share it in a
pinch if only he could decide how ten square inches of homespun could be made to stand in for two hundred
hand-embroidered lawn wipes.
"I daren't -- "
Frodo's lips quirked. "I might almost think you had no opinions at all except that I've heard you holding forth at the Ivy
Bush on the price of Longbottom Leaf and you were quite definite just now about your preference for stone over gravel."
Sam stared at the murky liquid, the frill of white foam on the lip of the copper, and the linens surfacing like potato
dumplings in a pot of chicken broth. He knew more about dumplings than he did about yard goods and wasn't
prepared to hazard a guess on amenities no matter what the provocation. He sighed.
"Gentlehobbits' furnishings are beyond my ken, sir. The old master got there and back with less than a gross of
hankies, and that's a fact."
"So he did, and loved to tell the tale again and again. The question before us," said Frodo with a flourish of the tongs,
"is whether I should boil them for another ten minutes or leave you to give them a rinse in this pot of clean water while I
butter some bread for our tea?
Sam shrugged. "They'll need a second rinse and a run through the mangle or they won't dry in this weather. You could
hang 'em by the fire o' course but the kitchen would smell like the Gammidge sweat house and -- "
"I beg your pardon?" interrupted Frodo. "The Gammidge sweat house?"
"It's a figure of speech," said Sam, clearing a speck of merkel from his throat. "What they call a -- "
"Sa-a-a-m?"
"Didn't I tell you about our sweat house, Mr. Frodo? It's very old and Cousin Harding --"
"I don't want to hear about Harding Gamgee," said Frodo, tapping the middle button of Sam's weskit with the tongs.
"Why would a hobbit walk twenty leagues to Gamwich when he can sweat in the comfort and privacy of his own house?
I'm sweating enough for two and I've scarcely left the kitchen all morning. Or am I wrong in thinking that this sweat
house plays a key role in your family gathering?"
"Naw," said Sam, afraid that his resolve to stay quiet had broken on the rocks of Frodo's wits and his own loose tongue.
"Happen you ain't. Gammidgeys live in smials like regular folk, and sweat in 'em, too, I shouldn't wonder, or would do if
they hadn't moved to Tighfield a hundred years ago and become Ropers. Our sweat house has a metal furnace and
benches round the --"
"Benches?" Frodo's tone was one of affected disinterest. "Would it be similar to Mistress Gildenfoot's establishment in
Bywater? If so, you're wrong about its being a Gamwich custom. You see, Great-Great-Grandfather Balbo of the
yellowed varnish --"
"Bless me," interjected Sam, astonished by the suggestion that Harding would have the wherewithal to handle frequent
custom at his age. "Gammidge has no sporting house, nor ever did, to my knowledge. There's one in Tighfield though,
with fringed settees and a ceiling lantern as big as a pumpkin. Or so the lads tell me."
He might have discovered the truth of the rumours had he been able to give his Dad the slip on their last visit to Uncle
Andwise, but he had spent his days in the rope-walk with Anson and his evenings at the Half Butt Inn discussing a pint
pot of cider under the Gaffer's watchful eye.
"I'm stunned," said Frodo. "I'd always assumed that Westmarch hobbits were forced to make their own entertainment.
This sweat house --"
"-- is a certain remedy for ague, fever, croup and the itch, according to our Halfred," finished Sam, who was content to be
entertained by his master anywhere between Hobbiton and the Bounds, fringed settee or no.
"Why a sweat house in Gamwich when a cure for the itch is nearer at hand?" replied Frodo. "Aunt Dora assures me
that an occasional visit to Mistress Gildenfoot's will suffice for a single hobbit of leisure, although what a spinster of five
score knows of the matter is a mystery to me. I've ignored her letters because I don't -- that is to say -- " He bent his
gaze to the copper. "My itch is of a different sort."
Sam tried to look sympathetic but as he had no idea how to scratch Frodo's itch without losing his position he feared
that he was not altogether successful.
"The sweat house is a kind of dry bath, Mr. Frodo. There's none like it in Bywater, nor Buckland neither if I'm not
mistaken. In Wiseman's day it was a smial on the banks of the Little Trickle, with heated stones over a wood fire and
no chimney. But Rose Greenhand didn't care for the smoke and -- "
"This was before she was swept downstream, I take it?"
"Aye," said Sam, frowning slightly. "Old Gammidgey -- Hob Gammidge, as he was then -- built a house with a proper
furnace and it stands in Harding's back garden to this day, though some claim to miss the smell of the pine logs.
Gaffer says such folk are cross as two sticks by nature."
"I'd just as soon walk to the Green Dragon and drink a mug of best bitter with my friends when I'm in the mood for a
smoke," said Frodo, inching closer to the jumble of linens. The rising steam slicked his face with moisture and twisted
his dark hair into kiss curls on his forehead. He glanced at Sam. "Is lavender soap used in the sweat house?"
Sam shook his head, admiring the sparkle of water on Frodo's lashes. "No soap at all."
"What end does it serve?" asked Frodo. "A dry bath, that is, for soap undoubtedly serves some end and I trust that
Harding is acquainted with it. I can appreciate the curative properties of steam, but I have yet to meet an ague or a fever
that could resist a glass of ginger cordial and a brisk walk."
"The walk to and from the steam house is brisk when a nor'easter is blowing," said Sam, remembering how his cods
had shrivelled up at last year's get-together. "So when the eldest gaffer has prepared the whisks we --"
"Ball whisks or sauce whisks?" said Frodo as he shifted the first of the wet handkerchiefs to the cold water tub. "I'm not
surprised that food would be involved at some point, but I'd recommend --"
"Neither, sir. They're made of birch twigs and lengths of twine."
"My dear Sam!" cried Frodo, dropping the tongs in his excitement. "We've been talking at cross-purposes for the past
five minutes. Mistress Gildenfoot uses willow, I believe, but the principle is the same. I'd hoped that your steam house
might form part of my new book on Westfarthing customs but it's turned out to be a commonplace business after all.
Gamwich, as I said earlier, is a long way to go for pleasure of that sort."
"There's no pleasure 'of that sort' to be had in the sweat house. We slap ourselves with birch twigs to make the blood
rise in our -- "
Frodo snorted. "I could tell you a horrifying tale of Lotho, a willow withe, and a pot of strawberry conserve. Remind me
when I've finished the laundry."
"I'd rather not hear it." Sam had enough trouble at the prospect of him and Frodo sitting cheek by cheek for half an hour
without the spectre of a Sackville-Baggins coming between them. "Mr. Lotho is welcome to his amusements but you
won't find any in the Gammidge sweat house. The whisks make the blood rise in our limbs, I meant to say; I wouldn't
know of any other use."
"I stand corrected," said Frodo, a twinkle in his eyes as he returned to his work. "What happens next?"
"We sit in the altogether until someone faints from the heat," replied Sam, at a loss to explain the benefits of communal
steaming to a hobbit who had been brought up at haphazard by a bachelor cousin. "'Tis fearful hot in the sweat house
and if we forget ourselves in the thrill of the moment a gaffer unaccustomed to stimulation might -- "
"The thrill of a rough wooden bench should be a novel experience," said Frodo quickly. He tossed the last of the
handkerchiefs into the rinse water and pouted at the unfortunate result. Sam had rarely seen so many scraps of linen
crowded into such a small container; there was scarce room for the tongs
"I mustn't neglect to take notes if I can find somewhere to keep my pencil," continued Frodo, poking idly at the laundry.
"Do you carry him off once he's fainted?"
"In a manner o' speaking," said Sam, who had begun to question why his master had wanted a second pair of hands
when he was as adept as any Baggins at making chit-chat while doing his own housework. "We take a plunge in the
duck pond and then we broach a barrel of ale. He soon comes round."
"Thank goodness, but -- " Frodo stared at Sam as though he had only just noticed him. "Is swimming one more
Gamgee custom hitherto unknown to me?"
"I said naught about swimming, Mr. Frodo. The pond is no deeper than a pig trough."
"I'm relieved to hear it. Would you mind if I mentioned your name in the acknowledgements? I fancied the title, Natural
History and Antiquities of the Westfarthing, but you might prefer An Excursion to Tighfield with An Account of a Curious
Bathing Custom by S. Gamgee."
"I'd as soon be nameless. My gaffer -- "
"Doubtless. But tell me if I've understood you correctly." He aimed the tongs at Sam. "Harding Gammidge has a small
wooden outbuilding in his --"
"Naw. It's almost as large as Farmer Newbold's pig barn," said Sam, studying the arrangement of pans with feigned
interest so that Frodo might have time to consider the magnificence of the family holdings. "There's a mort o' Gamgees
in the Westfarthing."
"Harding Gammidge," said Frodo, with an aggrieved look at his soapy linens and another at Sam, "has a remarkably
capacious wooden building in his back garden which is used every spring to --" He paused. "What do Gamgees do the
rest of the year?"
"We bathe in hot water same as normal folk."
"I should hope so. Indoor plumbing at home is worth any number of cold baths at twenty leagues distance. One is
spared the inconvenience of marching to the pond like a line of cows coming in to be milked."
Sam had no familiarity with indoor plumbing and a hot bath was invariably the end result of much labour but a tin tub in
the kitchen was certainly preferable to the duck pond in Gammidge.
"Not a line, sir. We form a throng and move in haste because of the cold."
"Do you, indeed? I look forward to observing what must surely be an ancient mating custom."
"Mating custom?" Sam hadn't thought of it in that light although he had already decided that if he and his master failed
at an understanding before they reached Gammidge, the steam house would provide a splendid opportunity for Frodo
to see the ample goods he had on offer. "Who would have hankered after Wiseman Gamwich?"
"I said nothing whatsoever about Wiseman," snapped Frodo, "but as you're here in my kitchen he was clearly the apple
of someone's eye. Why else would your family pursue such a tiresome custom unless it served a useful purpose?"
Sam nodded.
"I reckon it does, but the sweat house isn't as popular as it once was since Wending, who was a grandson of
Wiseman's brother, Hoarfoot, was taken by a fit of the ague when he argued with Frollo Brown at the door of the
changing room. Arguments are frowned on because -- " He bit his lip and silently hummed a few bars of The Bonny
Hawthorn to clear his head. "-- because Harding won't have it."
"Neither would I. The scuffle with Sancho Proudfoot caused considerable damage to my pantry; the plaster still hasn't
been repaired. I can only imagine what it must be like to have a horde of Gamgees and Cottons fighting in the back
garden."
"Aye, well --" Sam had never fought in the garden but he had tussled with Halfred in the kitchen at Number 3 on more
than one occasion. A friendly scrap between kin was nothing like the unseemly carryings-on after the Party. "Wending
was accursed for his bickering ways and Frollo caught the mump from a nevvy and died last winter."
"I'm sorry to hear it," said Frodo, "although it's hardly surprising that a hobbit would catch the ague while standing naked
in a chicken yard. That aside, why is the sweat house less popular since Wending and Frollo squabbled?"
"Folk were slow to believe in the curse till Wending was struck down on the threshold. No one wants to share a harsh
word now lest --"
"Oh come, my dear Sam!" cried Frodo, lowering the tongs and turning his attention to the wash. "That's laying it on a bit
thick. Why would anyone be cursed for a disagreement? And why, more to the point, didn't you tell me to use a larger
tub for my hankies?"
"You didn't ask," said Sam, bending over to examine the motley assortment. He had as little skill with fine linen as with
laundry soap but he was pleased to have their conversation take a different course; if he were to flout the Gaffer's need
for secrecy twice in one day he would pay the fiddler at supper. "Besides, I was knee-deep in nasturtians."
"I suppose you were." Frodo drew a cuff from the mixture and let it spin idly for a moment before dropping it back into
the basin. "Doesn't Marigold add something to the water?"
"Gammer Birtwhistle's Bluing," said Sam, watching a bead of grey froth soak into the quarry tiles. He rubbed at it with
his toe. "It'll take more than one rinse and a bag of smalt to whiten that lot."
"I fear you're right," replied Frodo. "I may have to muddle along with yellowed cuffs and dirty handkerchiefs. Do we have
any bluing?"
"I don't know, sir." Sam was on intimate terms with the garden shed and the beer cellar but he was unfamiliar with the
contents of the storage pantries. It was likely that old Mr. Bilbo had amassed a great number of peculiar things, but
where they might be found was another matter. "I'll have a look for it when I fetch the big wash tub. Where -- ?"
Frodo flung the tongs onto the sideboard and collapsed into his chair with a despairing moan. "I could be wrong, but
the bay laurel by the kitchen door appears to be using it as a planter."
"So it does," said Sam, who had seen his Gaffer prune the tree last autumn. He patted Frodo on the shoulder and
hastily stepped towards the door. "Why don't I run home and borrow one from Marigold? I won't be a jiffy."
She would give him an earful about gentlehobbits who laundered on a Friday and before the night was out every lass in
Hobbiton would know that Mr. Frodo Baggins was a-walking to Gammidge with young Samwise the gardener.
"Why was he angry in the changing room?" asked Frodo, remembering his place in their talk as he rose again to put the
kettle on the hob. He took a pair of napkins from the dresser and began to set the table as Sam had seen him do many
times when Bilbo was at home.
"Frollo Brown was second cousin to Mistress Cotton and not a Gamgee in any wise," said Sam. "When he shoved
ahead of the others in the porch, he was told by Wending to mend his manners. Oaths were uttered and they'd have
come to blows 'cept Harding told them --"
" -- he wouldn't have it." Frodo grimaced. "Harding and I will not be the best of friends, I fear. Will he object to my
presence?"
"My Gaffer won't hear aught spoken against a Baggins of Bag End. You can't help not being a Gamgee, if you don't
mind me saying so."
"Not at all," said Frodo. "I might be able to produce a spurious Gamgee ancestor, but from what you've said I suspect
that Harding would notice the counterfeit." He pointed to the rinse tub. "On the whole, I'd rather he noticed my ancestry
than my linens."
"The hankies will be right as rain when you've ironed out the wrinkles," answered Sam. "And you won't be wearing cuffs
in the steam house. Everyone has a clean square of checked gingham to sit upon and a --"
"Quite," said Frodo, spooning a generous measure of tea into the pot and cocking his head at Sam. "But how did
Harding come to be in possession of several dozen laundered tea towels if Gamwich has no amenities?"
"We bring them with us. Hand-made for the gathering by a guild of Hobbiton lasses sworn to --"
"You're pulling my leg," said Frodo. He chose a loaf from the breadbox and for a brief spell the silence was broken only
by the murmur of the simmering kettle and the clink of cutlery.
"Perhaps I'll wait at the inn while you gambol in the altogether and whisk yourselves with birch twigs," he continued
when the table had been laid with slices of buttered bread and a jar of gooseberry jam.
"I'm sorry," replied Sam, bidding farewell to any chance of a quiet cuppa with his master once Frodo realised that more
hardship was involved in walking to Gammidge than sore feet and short commons. "There's no inn west of Tighfield.
Nary a one."
"Ah," said Frodo with a remarkable degree of calm under the circumstances. "I see. So I'm to give up hope of a
comfortable bed after three days of traipsing through mud and bracken in exchange for the dubious pleasure of sitting
naked in a ramshackle outbuilding with every Cotton, Greenhand, Roper and Gamgee between the Westmarch and the
River?"
"Summat like that," muttered Sam. It sounded dafter than a bag of doorknobs when put that way but the pleasure of a
snug steam house on a frosty spring day was not to be sneezed at. "The Ropers bring tents and vittles from Tighfield.
There's a bonfire with baked taters, and kissing behind the waggons, and Suck and Blow."
The kettle gave a shrill pop and a puff of steam issued from the spout.
"I must have misheard," said Frodo, as he poured a dollop of cream into each cup with a hand which shook a little from
the unaccustomed laundering. "What did you say at the end?"
"It's a game, sir, akin to Snapdragon or Spin the Bottle, only with a scrap of card and a powerful amount of suction. The
card passes around the circle -- " Sam fished a seed packet from his waistband and held it to his lips. " -- like so, until
someone lets go of it. The lass next to me -- Rose Cotton, it was -- kept dropping it a-purpose, or so Tom said. You
wouldn't believe the carry-on."
"Don't be a ninnyhammer," said Frodo, staring at Sam's mouth as if he had just been struck a blow on the head. "I
would have no trouble believing it."
Sam, somewhat abashed by this admission of having been gulled by a Cotton, put the seeds in his breast pocket and
reached for the door handle. "My lips were chapped from the wind and I had a cramp in my left --"
"It occurs to me," said Frodo, setting his arms akimbo and facing down the laundry tub as if it were a stray mongrel
which had invaded Bag End, "that the bother I've had with these blasted hankies and the sheer wretchedness of the
Westmarch in mid-May will have been worth it if I can prevent Rose Cotton from causing further harm to your character."
"'Tweren't my character, Mr. Frodo, so much as my buttocks. The ground was cold as a frosted frog and by the time the
sucking and blowing was done I could barely rise to my feet, I was that stiff."
"Thank you for the account," said Frodo. "I feel vastly reassured. If Marigold agrees to iron these once they've been
mangled and dried on the privet, I can face whatever misery and embarrassment await us in Gamwich. What do you
say?"
"Happen she will, sir, but you needn't be discomfited. If you'd rather play Pin the Tail on the Donkey, no one will mind.
Suck and Blow isn't for everyone."
"I'm all too aware of that." Frodo turned back his wilting shirtsleeves and picked up a towel to lift the kettle off the hob.
"We can discuss it on the way to Gamwich. Meanwhile, there's a pot of tea to be shared and if you'd care to bring your
lunch --"
"Thankee, Mr. Frodo. I'll be there and back in a trice," said Sam and, in the conviction that he had escaped the lair of a
fire-drake without being singed overmuch, he hurried away to Bagshot Row.
