anpassal

Anpassal Chapter 1

"The road is a splendid thing," said Frodo, admiring the rutted track that led from his front door to the hedge at the
bottom of the garden, "whether it goes on and on or merely ends at a sweat house in Gamwich. Wherever it leads, I
promise to be as good a companion to you as Bilbo was to Thorin Oakenshield and his merry band."

"Ah," said Sam, who had scant use for dwarves and would rather have passed the week at Number 3 with Figwort's
seed catalogue and a bag of peppermint chews. "It leads across the meadow to the Bywater Road, if I remember
rightly. We ought to --"

"I'm out of shape," continued Frodo, slipping the key beneath the doorsill for the char, "but I will do my best to stay the
course." He tucked a thumb into the waistband of his breeches as if the frenzy of the past few days at Bag End might
have reduced his already slender middle to the width of a bulrush.

Frodo had stayed the course so well thus far that it had taken most of Sam's willpower to finish the week's chores
without a rude word escaping his lips. If Frodo had stepped into the garden once to report on his progress he had done
it a dozen times. He had ordered the paint, agreed with Sam that green slate would be an ideal paving material, and
wondered why Bilbo hadn't thought of it in his seventy-five years as master. He had suspended the milk delivery,
instructed the posthobbit to leave Aunt Dora's letters in the rhubarb forcer, and seen to the Daily Delver subscription. He
had dried his handkerchiefs, aired his travelling blanket, polished the knob on his stick, and mended his breeches from
the vantage point of the steps. It was true that he had given as many hours to Sam's progress in the leek rows as he
had to his buttons but he was as neat a seamster as Marigold had claimed and before long he had gone indoors to
brew a pot of tea and left Sam to his thoughts. If anyone had suggested that Mr. Baggins was unsuited to the perils of a
long expedition Sam would have split his sides with laughter.

"Thankee, sir, but we ought to take the lane from the field opposite Bagshot Row. It meets the Water just beyond the
village and as my Gaffer would say, 'tis no secret when three know it." Sam scratched his head. It was a great deal
more than three since he had let fall a casual remark at the Ivy Bush about his arrangement with Mr. Frodo and Tom
Cotton had told Charibert Bolger that some folk were twinned at the hip, sure as eggs is eggs. Sam had no qualms
with regard to his cousins but he was loath to be seen by every ragamuffin in Hobbiton.

"Master Hamfast has pithy phrases for all occasions," replied Frodo as he placed a stack of copper coins on the mat in
case there was postage due. "What they would call 'apothegms' in the Southfarthing. Be that as it may, I can't help but
agree with him in the present instance. We should keep this venture to ourselves."

"It's not -- I mean -- " Sam feared that, though the Gaffer had spent the weekend straightening his onion fork and had
said nothing further on the subject of Frodo's charms, news of the startling innovation would travel to Tighfield on the
tongues of his three sisters. "The others will know afore we reach Gammidge but there's no call to go trapezing through
Hobbiton with Sandyman's cur barking at our heels."

"I see," said Frodo. He fingered the gold fob which Bilbo had given him on his twenty-first birthday while his eyes
followed the trace of silver winding westward below the grassy slope of the Hill. "I trust you'll have no cause to regret the
invitation."

The map of Nobottle and District which Sam had spied on the kitchen table the previous day had been marked with
crosses in red ink and a sizeable expanse of coloured hatching at the southernmost edge of Rushock Bog. If he had
cause for regret it was that he had failed to inspect it when Frodo's back was turned. Unless his battered copy of
Mushrooms of the Westfarthing: Where and How to Find Them had a page missing, there was no decent forage in those
parts.

"Don't be daft. I've sat beside four score Gamgees each May for nigh on twenty years and we're like as two beans in a
pod. A change is as good as a rest as my --"

"No doubt he would, although he's remarkably resistant to change whenever I mention celery root," said Frodo tartly.
"But I beg to differ with you about the beans. No one is like you, Sam, not even young Marigold."

"That's kind of you," said Sam, after a brief lapse in awareness during which he imagined that Frodo had paid closer
attention to his gardener's tight-collared leeks than a common working hobbit would have expected. "My Gaffer -- "

"Shall we go?" Frodo indicated the opening in the hedge and the sliver of green beyond it. "The sooner we set out, the
sooner I can return to my old self. I've let the events of recent months overwhelm my normal ebullience. A long walk will
have me back on my feet."

Since Frodo was the same witty, absent-minded, and secretive hobbit whom Bilbo had brought home from Buckland
many years ago and was also unconscionably cheerful for someone who seldom rose from his bed before elevenses,
Sam was at a loss to determine what this 'old self' might be.

"Yes, Mr. Frodo," he said, with a last forlorn glance at the potting shed which he had come to think of as 'home' in spite of
being a relative newcomer to the splendours of its folding bench and deal shelves. His garden diary lay hidden amidst
the woollens in his bedroom cabinet and the tools had been put under lock and key by the Gaffer's order. They would be
his again in nine days time if Frodo chose to keep him on at Bag End. "Bad company brings bad habits, according to
Ted, though I'm sure he meant no disrespect to Master Peregrin. He --"

"Deference," interrupted Frodo with a gesture of distaste, "would be unusual in that quarter. If he meant no disrespect,
he ought to have buttoned his lip. Your Gaffer will have opinions on that subject but I don't want to hear them."

He drew his coat about him and clambered nimbly through the hedge, the knapsack jouncing against his bottom. It was
evident from the size and shape of his pack that he had remembered not only the ten score handkerchiefs but sundry
other items as well. He had refused to allow Sam the privilege of checking his gear that morning though it was obvious
he would wish for a lesser burden by the time they had reached the crossroads. A wallet of pipeweed, a pair of mittens,
a frying pan, and a full set of utensils were more to the purpose than whatever he had stowed in his kit.

"Nor me," said Sam, squeezing past the neatly clipped branches into the deep grass of the upper meadow. The gap in
the privet had been carefully maintained by two generations of gardeners when it would otherwise have grown together
since, as Bilbo had often said, one never knew how useful a back door might prove to be. The narrow path from the
hedge marked the northern boundary of the common orchard and crossed the Hill in a drift of bluebells until it met the
lane on the far side of Hobbiton. The ground was springy and damp underfoot and the sky a stark blue from Greenfields
to Hardbottle. A cart rattled in the street below and Sam stopped to gaze at the scattered houses and the red-tiled roofs
from which the dew rose in a sun-caught haze. If Harding Gammidge had been less bound by tradition a sweat house
of ample proportions could have been raised in Grange Lane and advantage taken of its close proximity to the Mill
Pond. There would have been no need for anyone to sleep in a tent near the pig shed.

"Stubborn old blister," he said.

"Home is behind, the world ahead, and there are many paths to tread --" replied Frodo, adjusting the pack more
comfortably on his shoulders. "-- some of them resulting in blisters. I had no idea that a knapsack jammed with cuffs
and handkerchiefs could be so heavy." He squinted at the line of coppiced alders on the river bank. "The bally thing
does go on and on, as far as the North Moors at any rate.   I've passed that way with Merry and it travels neither east of
the sun nor west of the moon."

"I didn't suppose it would," said Sam, whose knowledge of the Water was limited to that part of it which could be seen
on a clear day from Bagshot Row. "Mr. Bilbo was a dab hand at doggerel verse but a mite fanciful when the fit was on
him. As for linens, I'd sooner share the load than have my dad utter a cutting remark at Gammidge about the size of your
knapsack. If it's all the same to you, o' course."

"It generally is," said Frodo, "although your outrageous cheek is likelier than my handkerchiefs to make the Gaffer's hair
stand on end." He pulled out his quarter-repeater pocket watch and consulted it for a long moment.

"It's possible that Tolman Cotton's waggon will overtake us before we have a chance to hide ourselves in the bracken,
but if they left the farm by eight o'clock and met your family for second breakfast at the Ivy Bush, they won't be abreast of
the foot bridge earlier than half ten. The likelihood of Master Hamfast catching sight of my knapsack is therefore slim to
none. If the hankies prove cumbersome I can send them home from Nobottle by parcel post and no one will be the
wiser." Frodo snapped his watch case shut and turned away. "As long as we don't break for elevenses or tea, we
should be able to cover twenty-five miles by nightfall. Off we go."

Sam huffed into his weskit at the mention of second breakfast and trudged along the Hill in Frodo's wake with a
yearning in his vitals that could not be assuaged by the fine weather or the striking vista of his master's well-clad
bottom. On a common-or-garden Monday he would have been seated in the kitchen at Number 3 with a glass of stout
and a full stomach while Frodo slept snug as a duck in a ditch under a mound of disordered bedding. After a pipe or
two in the door of the shed he could have gone to his work in the hope of a few words with his master at noon and three
meals between breakfast and supper. If he had known that a snack at mid-morning would be out of the question -- and
tea, as well, he added in a low voice so that Frodo wouldn't hear his complaint -- the pease pudding which he had eaten
at dawn would have been accompanied by a coddled egg or a slice of gammon.

He took a peppermint humbug from his pocket and shoved it into his cheek. The sweet had been lying next to the
gingham hankie since April and was concealed by a prodigious quantity of lint. It would do little to assuage the hunger
which had begun to make a hollow of his insides but the bag of dried fruit was out of reach. If they had journeyed this
way in harvest time he could have stolen a low-hanging apple. Now, at the back end of May, the downy green nubbins
were no bigger than cobnuts.

The shadows of knotted branches stretched out ahead of them as they marched one behind the other through the
waves of crested dogstail, passing from the warmth of the open meadow into the shelter of the orchard. Farmer Cotton
had set his skeps among the trees, in the high grass speckled with lady's smock and knapweed, and the woven hives
hummed with commotion.

"Frost or dew in the morning light shows no rain before the night," said Sam, sucking hard on his mint.

"An astute observation," answered Frodo, "but the cuffs of my breeches are soaking wet. There's something to be said
for the Bywater Road though it's ill-suited to hobbit feet in other respects. Last winter I almost lost a cousin in a water-
filled rut by the Mill Yard."

"I expect that was Master Pippin," said Sam, halting just beyond the last row of trees and staring at the chimneys of
Bagshot Row in the near distance and the figure of Daddy Twofoot standing by the gate. "He's small as a biddy-hen."

Everything seemed far off, as if he had already walked over grass and stone past a hobbit's normal reckoning. Above
the sunlit unfurling leaves of pear and apple, the privet hedge mounted the breast of the hill in a great undulating wave,
from the ragged corner where they had cut the bolt-hole for Mr. Bilbo to the freestone wall along the Lane. A boxwood
dragon would be a fine addition to the prospect and would frighten Lotho Sackville-Baggins better than an oliphaunt
frame. He might take up the matter with his Gaffer if an opportunity offered itself between the birch twigs and the duck
pond.

"He is," said Frodo, making for the stile without a backward glance, "and one of the least well-behaved of the Tooks,
though a pot hole is commonplace when set beside the strange fate of Cousin Lalia."

The humbug clicked against Sam's teeth as he tallied the cost in time and materials. Fifteen twelve inch box shrubs
from Shrewe and Woodshall in Frogmorton, ten years' labour, one pair of spring action topiary clippers, and a sub-
gardener in June of each year. There were rumours in the village of a box dragon at Michel Delving that belched steam
at visitors to the Mathom-house but he could scarce credit the tale. Perhaps he should ask Mr. Gandalf who had a
singular knowledge of mechanical gadgets.

"Less so if the blasted lane is full of them, of course. If I'd sprained my ankle our adventure would have been short-
lived."

Sam fancied making a sketch of the design but as the master was on the other side of the fence with his green velvet
weskit unbuttoned and his face screwed into a frown there wasn't time to search for a pencil.

"What a to-do," he said as he climbed the wooden stile and jumped down into the dirt with a rattle of pots and pans.
"Gammon and mustard."

"Not a bit of it," said Frodo. He pointed to the crowd of stones beneath his feet and the furrow in the ground where the
spring rain had worn a passage. He glared at Milo Burrows' flock which stood in an orderly manner, their black faces
turned to him in rapt admiration. He raised an eyebrow at Sam. "It's rougher than a scrubbing board."

"Well, I'll be blowed," said Sam. "So t'is."

"If I have some remnant of influence in Hobbiton after our exploits in the sweat house, I'll talk to Farmer Cotton about
hiring a road-mender at the Mid-year's Fair. Meanwhile, we should -- " Frodo stopped on the grass verge and cocked
his ear to listen. "Has that parti-coloured bitch of Sandyman's followed us from the village? There's been an odd sound
to our rear since we left Bag End."

Sam coughed past the bulge in his cheek. "That's my humbug, sir. Begging your pardon and meaning no -- "

"My dear Sam." Frodo's frown deepened. "All Hobbiton can see that you have me on leading-strings. The whole
Farthing has exchanged gossip on your mastery of the garden and my tolerance of your quirks. Never beg my pardon."

"No, sir," said Sam, baffled by these assertions as everyone knew that Frodo was more pigheaded than most and prone
to bouts of whimsy. Ted Sandyman had gone as far as to remark that he was cracked as Griffo Boffin's chimney-pot but
Ted's judgement was not highly thought of in the district. The lads at the Green Dragon who were of a less spiteful
temperament had agreed over a game of draughts on Friday last that young Mr. Baggins was restless and headstrong
but would soon settle.

"If I may finish --" continued Frodo in a mollified tone. "We'll try a shortcut. Why should we twist our ankles in the lane
when we can nip down to the bridge by the nearer route? The sheep path begins here. Do you see it?"

"I can see summat," muttered Sam, though he could see only his master teetering on the edge of the bank and the
gleam of water at the ford below. He disapproved of shortcuts, especially shortcuts that involved an excess of
goosegrass in his foothair, but if his master had taken a dislike to Back Lane there was no help for it. "Happen we'll
break our necks either way."

"Rubbish," said Frodo, moving off at a quick pace towards the line of alders. "Hobbits are a sure-footed folk. Haven't
you heard The Bogey Beast of Rushock Bog?"

Sam chewed the centre of his humbug as he racked his brains for any memory of boggles, goblins or mumpokers in
those parts.

"Nan told us the tale of Bone-gnawer," he said at last, "but he was a black hound from Oatbarton with eyes like fiery
pinwheels. If bogeys are loose in Rushock Bog we oughtn't to --"

"The mushroom-gathering is well in hand," replied Frodo, "as was the beast once my cousin had been rescued by the
renowned sleuth, Gilden Smiles, whose sure-footedness was famed throughout the Farthings before he retired to a
cottage in Long Cleeve."

"Sleuth," said Sam, practicing the word under his breath until the humbug had quite gone down. "Sleuth?"

"Yes. It has a complicated etymology. A hobbit who follows a track or trail --" Frodo waved his iron-shod stick at the
uneven footpath ahead and the narrow gated bridge. On the far bank, the Bywater Road ran left and right bordered by
hedgerows. "Well, a hobbit of that sort is a sleuth. I'd show you the entry in Languages of the Outer Lands but I've left it
at Bag End. There wasn't room in my knapsack."

"Ah," said Sam, as he stepped in front of his master to unlatch the gate. Any hobbit could follow a trail unless he was
two buttonholes short of a coat and if he lost his way on a foggy night he could ask for directions. Besides, a fellow with
no more than the usual amount of common sense knew to carry a slab of bacon instead of a book. "Fancy that."

The bridge was barely wide enough for them to walk abreast and a hobbit of comfortable girth found it hard not to touch
shoulders with the lad next to him when that lad was toting a pack the size of a linen press. Sam waited for Frodo to
pass, leaning over the rail to look at himself in the slow-moving water, at the crown of reflected branches about his head
and the dark green alder leaves floating idly in the current. He gazed upstream to where the river curved around the
base of the Hill and disappeared from sight.

"Our Halfred has a smellhound, but he's low-slung and not partial to quagmires."

"Gilden Smiles," answered Frodo, "was a direct descendant of Bandobras Took on his mother's side and by no means
low-slung. We, on the other hand, should be hidden in the furze and bracken if we bear right through the trees and aim
for the old beech at the waymark. Before we stop for lunch, the waggon will have made the crossroads to Needlehole
and Little Delving and be none of our concern. A secluded spot on the river bank, cucumber sandwiches, a wedge of
Whitwell Blue..."

"Four foot five inches? T'ain't natural." Sam shut both gates behind them, picked the goosegrass burrs from his
breeches, and scrambled up the bank after Frodo. He might not be as tall as some folk but he had plenty of bottom and
was no less nimble than a Took of uncertain lineage.

"Possibly not," said Frodo, as Sam came up beside him, "but shall I tell you The Bogey Beast of Rushock Bog as we
go?"

"If it's agreeable." Sam knew that his master would tell him in any case and if the tale became tangled he could while
away the duller moments with thoughts of the ham pie he had thrust into his knapsack at the last minute. It was too
early in the year for cucumbers, but the parcel of bread and butter, the Champion radishes, and the freshly-picked
watercress would do in a pinch.

"Not very agreeable for some," replied Frodo, slashing at the bracken with his stick. "This particular tale begins with the
sudden unexplained death of a third cousin and the footprints of a gigantic hound."

"Bless me, that's a rum go," said Sam, groping for a second humbug. He had been afraid that he might lose Frodo in
the undergrowth and would have volunteered to go ahead of him into the shelter of the trees but his master had already
vanished. Above the rustle of his feet among the needles and the call of a cuckoo, Frodo's voice could be heard reciting
the story of a family curse, an heir from Greenholm, and a brace of stolen dwarf boots. Sam hurried to catch him up and
for the next few miles through the fir wood and the open glade, the sprawling mass of periwinkle and sweet woodruff, he
sucked his humbug and attended to the gripping tale of Frodo's distant relation.

It was a sad disappointment that after so many adventures the Bogey Beast turned out to be the son of Sarn Puddifoot's
truffle hound, Spothog, and the wrongdoer a Brandybuck cousin whose father had married a lass from Bree and
changed his name to Longholes. Gilden Smiles had downed the innocent beast with a stone from his slingshot,
recovered the missing dwarf boots, and taken his servant, who had shown an admirable degree of patience during the
ordeal, to the Golden Perch for supper.

"Ballocks," said Sam.

"I make no claims for its accuracy," said Frodo, as they emerged from the bracken to find themselves within sight of the
ancient beech, "but Gilden Smiles was a useful chap.   He saved young Brandybuck from a tight spot."

"That lad with the game leg -- " The servant's faithfulness might have played a greater part in the adventure than Frodo
had let on, a part for which a portion of veal pie at the Perch had been a meagre reward, but Sam had no chance to give
his opinion as Frodo had thrown off his knapsack and dropped to his knees in the grass. "Sir?"

"Lunch," said Frodo, scattering handkerchiefs broadcast as he rummaged in his pack. "I have a crock of pickled onions,
some hard-boiled eggs, half a roast chicken and various sundries. We should be several pounds lighter when we
arrive in Gamwich and if we run out of necessities we can forage in the woods. What have you brought?"

Sam had been determined not to be caught short. He wasn't averse to mushrooms provided they grew along the path,
but dandelions and wild garlic were for those who couldn't carry their own supplies. He eased the straps off his
shoulders and lowered his pack to the ground. The Water was calm below the falls and damselflies fluttered just above
the surface, their pale violet underbellies flashing in and out of the shadows. He unbuckled the flap and took out his
pipe-weed pouch, wishing there was time for tea as well before his master led them into Rushock Bog. Frodo's face
was flushed from the effort of lugging an unaccustomed weight and he would be all the better for a good strong cup.

"Cheese, bacon, hard biscuits, dried apples, pork sausages, wheaten bread --" he said, lifting out two stone bottles of
ginger beer and offering one to Frodo, "-- and a ham pie."

"Why don't you fill the kettle? We might have a small fire if it's not too much trouble." Frodo uncorked his portable inkwell
and fished a notebook from beneath a stack of hankies. "I shouldn't have bothered with these bits and pieces, but if I'm
to record what passes in the sweat house for my monograph on Westfarthing dialects I must have paper."

Sam would have asked for a spare slip had he not been in awe of the calfskin binding and thick wad of lined pages; it
would be a shame to use it for tinder. Instead, he made a nest of dry grass and assembled enough kindling to build a
fire while Frodo sat cross-legged with the inkwell balanced on his knee. When the spark had caught in the touchwood
and the sticks were blazing merrily, Sam knelt back on his haunches and watched for a moment as Frodo wrote a few
sentences at the top of the flyleaf and underlined them twice.

"Dialects?" he said.

"Folk-talk, as it were. The Tighfield dialect differs from the Bywater dialect and the Whitwell from the Greenfields. You
must have noted the peculiarities of Peregrin Took's speech." Frodo bit the end of his quill thoughtfully. "Not merely his
speech, to be honest, but it runs in the family. Ferumbras has the most unusual --"

"He's nowt but a bairn," said Sam and collected the iron kettle from his gear, stumping down to the river's edge to fill it in
the slow current. A quarter hour of unbroken quiet with his feet in the water and a fishing rod in his hand would have
gone a long way towards clearing his head of Frodo's gabble but his master was still talking and the words 'hinder end
like a dumpling' drifted to Sam's ears willy-nilly. When he returned to the camp, Frodo had opened the pickle crock and
was mopping up a spill with one of his hankies. The roast chicken, sporting an ill-used air after its night in the ice box,
had been cut into thin slices and festooned with a splodge of boiled dressing.

"But the less said about Ferumbras, the better," continued Frodo, wiping spiced vinegar from his shirt cuff. "Let me give
you another example. The Buckland pronunciation of our host's name might be 'Harding Gamwich' whereas Andwise
Roper -- a hobbit of decided opinion, I gather -- would refer to his cousin as 'Mester 'Arding'. Am I right?"

"Daft curmudgeon would be more apt," replied Sam as he made a tripod of green sticks and hung the kettle to boil. He
unwrapped a paper packet of tea and spooned two measures into the pot while keeping an eye on the notebook which
now had a smear of grease across the leaves.

"Ah, the pejorative." Frodo jotted down the phrase and drew a flourish around it. "Might I credit you with the saying in the
appendices? I won't reveal your name."

"I was joshing, sir. They call him Old Gammidgey after my great-granddad, Hob the Roper. It's a -- " He groped for the
word.

"An honorific," said Frodo. "I've noticed that your family has a confusing number of surnames. Wiseman Gamwich, Hob
Gammidge the Roper, Roper Gamgee, Andwise Roper -- " He added the names to his list and counted them with an
inky finger. "Four generations all told. The name of 'Baggins' has stayed put for over two hundred years. There's always
been a Baggins living under the Hill, as Bilbo used to say. It wasn't true, of course; Bungo Baggins built Bag End with
Belladonna Took's money. Balbo lived in a crumbling cottage on South Lane in Bywater. You can see the ruin from the
parlour of the Green Dragon."

If Frodo kept on, there would be no family secrets that hadn't been preserved for posterity in Natural History and
Antiquities of the Westfarthing or one of the many other books on which he claimed to be working. Sam was prepared to
be helpful where the intricacies of Tighfield mating customs were concerned, but for the most part he had begun to feel
like the great carp in Bywater Pond, the length of whose fins was an object of interest to hobbits from as far off as
Hardbottle. Perhaps he shouldn't have mentioned Nan Gamgee's unfortunate end and the queerness of Cousin
Harding. The surname of Gamgee might be hard to untangle for those unfamiliar with his longfather tree but it was
obvious why his mother had called him a halfwit.

"Hamson goes by 'Roper', too," he said, "but I plan to stay on at Number 3. Have a bit of chicken, sir, and mind the
inkwell. A sip of that and you'll have the wiffle-woffles."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Frodo, as he cleaned the quill on a handkerchief and put away the glass bottle in its travelling
case. He brought out his smoking things, the worn leather wallet and the cherry wood pipe. "Not the stomach-ache, I
mean, but your reluctance to leave Hobbiton. I'd miss your coddled eggs, if nothing else."

Sam blushed. He had dreams of giving his master more than coddled eggs before the journey was done and several
times on highdays if the wind was in the right quarter.

"Thankee, sir. Today's egg is better than tomorrow's hen, so some would have it." He sprinkled salt on the chicken and
arranged the radishes in a semi-circle along the edge of his plate. "Though I favour cock in wine sauce with bacon and
mushrooms."

"Don't we all," said Frodo, his expression downcast. He poked at the strands of Old Toby. "Glossary of Westfarthing
Words and Phrases, with examples of their use: to which are added the Culinary Customs of the Shire. Blue buckram
with red gilt labels. What do you think?"

"Ah," said Sam around his hard-boiled egg. "Meaning no disrespect --"

"I should remove that word from my vocabulary, if I were you. It sits more happily on Master Hamfast."

"I suppose it does, sir, but the lads at the inn would be less fond of tittle-tattle if my Gaffer were hard by. Mr. Frodo is
writing a book for the Bywater and District Circulating Library, I told them on Friday. T'ain't all cakes and ale at Bag End.
I'd have fallen to blows with Ted Sandyman 'cept the landlord's ratter bit Ted on his how-de-do and I had the last word. If
the Master is walking in the hills at midnight it's for a purpose, and that purpose is a book. Am I wrong, sir?"

"In part." Frodo poured the water for tea and set out a jar of honey from his own hives. "The Circulating Library has five
patrons and a copy of the Farmers' Almanac. Their budget doesn't run to gilt labels and I doubt very much whether it
would include a Shire chrestomathy. However, you're right about cakes and ale. I prefer Old Winyards and a full-bodied
blue cheese."

"Did you ever!" said Sam, who thought that Bilbo's private stock tasted of Nan Goodchild's cough syrup. He didn't care to
press the matter since Frodo's midnight rambles were none of anyone's business, but the flurry of rumours at the Green
Dragon and the attendant sly glances annoyed him no end. If the master had been plainer when mention was made of
Bilbo's whereabouts or his own frequent absences, nobody would have remarked on either. Not often, at any rate.

"Have you gone to visit elves?" he asked, holding his breath and his pickled onion.

"Now and then," admitted Frodo, busying himself with the mugs and spoons while Sam waited for tales of the king in
Mirkwood or the blithe-hearted folk at Rivendell who smelled like starlight. "You might have noticed -- "

Sam nodded encouragement as Frodo pointed the honey dipper at the tea pot.

"You might have noticed," Frodo continued, his eyes distant as if he were totting up sums, "that your speech differs from
Farmer Cotton's just as mine differs from Cousin Bilbo's. It's a question of linguistic change over generations. I plan to
record Harding Gammidge's speech as an example of the older Westfarthing dialect. So the next time your friends at
the Green Dragon bandy my name about, tell them I'm mad and be done with it."

Sam's shoulders slumped in defeat. "They already know it, sir, begging your pardon. And if you mean that Harding talks
queer --"

"I do. It's a wonder that you understand each other." Frodo dribbled a ribbon of honey into Sam's mug and passed it
across to him. "Then again, it may be that you don't understand each other except through the silent ritual of the sweat
house. If Harding were to say ah'll clout thi' lug 'ole you might not grasp his meaning directly but if he confronted you in
the altogether --"

"Aye?"

"We call it 'communal display'." Frodo turned a page of the notebook and licked the end of his pencil lead. "The
springle-ring is of a similar character."

"Is that so?" said Sam. "Fancy."

"I fancy it as well," replied Frodo. "And I shall add a chapter on the subject, if you have no objections. I'll be taking notes
throughout this ordeal."

"Oh, fiddle," mumbled Sam, dipping his head for a mouthful of tea. He had learned to suffer the scrutiny of the barmaid
at the Green Dragon and the good-natured jibes at the All Shire Wrestling Club, but he hadn't realised that if things got
out of hand in the sweat house, Frodo would grasp his meaning in a way that could not be gainsaid.

"I didn't quite catch that," said Frodo. "I dare say you have no objections on your own account, but do you mean to say
that Harding will baulk at my writing implements?"

"He won't have seen the like before."

"Won't have seen a Noblot Indelible Pencil!" exclaimed Frodo, deftly flicking his cuffs away from a close encounter with
the boiled dressing. "He lives in the back of beyond with no pencils, a shed the size of Farmer Newbold's pig barn, and
the honour of being the oldest Gamgee this side of the Brandywine.   What does he do for amusement?"

"Oh, as to that --" Sam rubbed the side of his nose while he considered whether a deliberate falsehood would be fitting
at this stage of the journey. If the lack of amenities in Gammidge or the prospect of a morning swim in the duck pond
had failed to discourage Frodo, there was scant reason to think that he would be upset by what Sam chose to tell him
about Westfarthing traditions. He was unlikely to return home until he had filled his notebook with every last tittle on
curious bathing customs and quizzed Sam's relations from first breakfast to fourses. At present, his face was alight with
interest and the plate of chicken, momentarily abandoned, was in danger of sliding off his lap into the grass. "He talks
to the swine. Five Willowbottom Old Spots and three Pincup Whites. Would you care to take off your jacket, sir? The
heat --"

"I don't believe you," said Frodo. He shoved the pencil into his breast pocket and resumed his meal with an air of
pained resignation. "Swine have little conversation, in my experience. I'll ask you again tomorrow."

"I could fasten it to the bottom of my pack or --"

Frodo's brow wrinkled as if the bottom of Sam's pack were on the far side of the Misty Mountains surrounded by
goblins.

"The weather is of no consequence," he said, his hand wandering to the horn buttons of the bottle-green weskit. "I won't
be seen abroad in my shirtsleeves."

He was content to be seen with his collar undone, his hair in knots, and a sheen of sweat on the bridge of his nose. He
showed no concern for the ink-stained handkerchief or the trail of crumbs marring the placket of his wool breeches. And
although he had the largest collection of coats in the Farthing and a multitude of wardrobes in which to house them, he
was unable to keep his clothes in order for longer than it took to hand out the ribbons at the Bywater Agricultural and
Cheese Show. If a gang of lasses were to tidy him each day for a fortnight, he would remain as rumpled as a cock
pheasant in moult.

Sam contemplated the smooth grey trunk of the copper beech, the tasselled stems of sheep's fescue, and the high arch
of unclouded sky where an inland gull could be seen breasting the wind. Above the dry rustle of willow branches and
black alder, the mournful note of a wood pigeon fell listlessly through the sultry air. There wasn't a whisper of movement
elsewise in any direction.

"There's no one here," he said, the mug of tea cool between his hands. He threw the dregs into the cow parsley and
rose to empty the kettle on the fire. If they were to walk eight leagues in a day and interrupt the expedition with a hunt for
mushrooms, they would need to save their talk till later.

"You're here," answered Frodo. "I'm aware that my manners at Bag End are wanting; Aunt Dora tells me so often and at
great length. Nevertheless, I'm willing to acknowledge that a gentlehobbit abroad without his coat is an improperly
dressed gentlehobbit. I should have worn my straw hat as well. If I'm browner than a berry by Highday it will be my own
fault."

Sam had no quibble with his master's manners. His hours in the garden would have seemed more burdensome had it
not been for the rare glimpse of Frodo at the window in his ruffled nightshirt. No skin could be as pale and clear or less
like a berry, and though he would never admit it, Sam was keen to see if his master was equally fair in those parts which
the nightshirt hid from view.

It was a hardship to be love-struck. He had tried not to stare at Frodo but Marigold, the saucy minx, and who knew how
many others had found him out. If his Gaffer were to hear a tag end of gossip at the Ivy Bush would he think it worse
that Sam fancied another lad or that he fancied a lad who was also Master?

"You're welcome to my hat," he said, fingering the edge of the rippled brim where it poked from the top of his pack. It
bore a marked resemblance to a flour sack and had been pressed into service as a portable cold cupboard for the pork
sausages and ham pie. There was no sense in not getting your money's worth, as the Gaffer would have said in a like
situation.

Frodo looked at the hat for a minute as he chewed the last of his chicken.

"It's very kind of you," he said, "but I won't deprive the sausages of their protection. They have some miles to go before
supper. Why don't you rinse the dishes while I study Bilbo's map?"

"Aye, sir," said Sam, although he would sooner have studied the map and left the dishes to their own devices. Frodo
had turned his attention from the remnants of his lunch and was examining the northward course of The Water as if to
gauge the amount of time necessary for a tour of Rushock Bog. Sam winced.

"On the subject of curious bathing customs -- " said Frodo as Sam dunked the tin plates in the river and wiped them with
his handkerchief. "You mentioned that Gamgees bathe in hot water like normal folk. Does Harding bathe or steam?"

Sam had only the vaguest recollection of his cousin's personal habits but it was too cold in the Westmarch for a hobbit
of five score years to doff his clothes in winter. Cast not a clout till May be out, as Gammer Catchpole had said when the
Widow Rumble was seen in the Wednesday market with no mittens.

"There's nary a bath in -- "

"Gamwich. I thought not. No bath, no public house, no indoor plumbing, no pencils. Ten miles from the nearest bath
for three days, huddled together in squalid conditions, a diet of field beans and fennel tea... I shouldn't wonder if the
festivities end with a few rounds of 'Ten Green Bottles.'"

"They have done, once or twice," said Sam, creeping up behind his master just as the map disappeared into the side
pocket of Frodo's knapsack. He wanted a glimpse of it in the worst way, though not as much as he wanted other things,
but he could never think how to ask for what didn't immediately concern him. The garden was his proper sphere and
how was Frodo to know that he had learned to read maps when Bilbo had tired of his questions about the Lonely
Mountain and shown him the Desolation of Smaug? It was on parchment, in red and black ink.

He spoke not a word of the mysterious runes or the Worm itself, but filled his pockets with dried apple, buckled the flap
on his pack, and stuck his pipe between his teeth in a determined effort to smoke it rather than commit himself further
as to Harding's cleanliness. Frodo hoisted his gear without any additional animadversions on Gammidge customs and
they marched off in single file, the chalk soil of the Bywater Road ascending in a great curve to their left.

The land east of Hobbiton was criss-crossed by stone walls, punctuated with swelling thatched roofs above round
unpainted doors, and busy with travellers pausing to lift a pint at the Green Dragon before resuming the journey to
Waymeet or Michel Delving. To the west, however, cultivated fields rapidly gave way to grass-covered downs dotted with
yellow rattle and rock roses or the pale violet lips of bee orchids. Stands of beech and ash grew in the valley bottoms
and there, if Frodo could be persuaded to give up his quest for bog mushrooms, they might find something as palatable
to complement the ham pie.

"I'd planned to bypass Nobottle," said Frodo, after a lengthy spell of silent communion with his pipeweed and tinderbox,
"but from what you've told me a bath is imperative. I won't be caught in the sweat house with dirt behind my ears. If we
stop for elevenses at the Flying Beagle we can have a scrub and brush up in the private room and continue to --"

He thrashed at an umbel of salad burnet with his stick. "To where, exactly? There's a crease in the map between
Nobottle and Tighfield but I'm sure that Bilbo spent the night at a fly speck of some sort in the vicinity. He had Grubb
cousins who kept a hostelry at Nobottle but I --"

"We can?" interrupted Sam, too distracted by the possibility of seeing to Frodo's earlobes, or whatever odds and ends
were in need of a polish, to take in that he had been asked a question.

"I can," replied Frodo, dropping back to walk beside him. "You may do as you please. I repeat -- "

"That would be Nettlebed, sir, or Lesser Nobottle as it was in my Nan's day. The village moved westwards on account of
the limestone." Sam had no memory of either place since the Gaffer favoured the road through Little Delving, but Anson
Roper swore that nowt good comes out o' Nettlebed 'cept the stone from Coolscar Quarry. "The shed at Bag End is
founded on Nettlebed chippings."

"The shed is your be-all and end-all," said Frodo, as if his gardener's preoccupation with potting up seedlings was both
unexpected and worrisome.

"Maybe," answered Sam, with little hope that a Baggins would comprehend the finer points of a shed which had
replaced Holman Greenhand's wooden lean-to after the Great Storm of 1387. His master had been in Buckland, at the
time, kicking his heels with gentry. "But my dad mixed the sand and clay with his own two feet."

"I'm not surprised he has rheumatism." Frodo proffered the pipeweed pouch and waited while Sam lit his briar, the
pungent smoke coiling around their heads as Sam contrived to blow several perfect O's in quick succession. "We'll
have our bath in Nettlebed then, and our last sight of linen sheets, too. Or would you prefer to bed down in a field this
side of Tighfield?"

"Naw," said Sam, who had no preferences about where to bed his master -- indeed, a patch of gorse by the wayside
would do to relieve the uncomfortable tightness in his breeches -- but whose thoughts on shared bathing were
impervious to coherent response.

"Good fellow," said Frodo a trifle absently, plucking a sprig of wild thyme and threading it through his button-hole. "My
young cousins are less considerate."

"Well, knock me for six!" said Sam with an attempt at disbelief that no one at Number 3 would have believed for a
moment. "Who'd have guessed it?"

The lads at the Ivy Bush had agreed that Gandalf was responsible on both occasions for Bilbo's disappearance, but
Frodo's unwillingness to 'settle' was plainly the fault of that queer lot from the wrong side of the Brandywine. Sam had
borne the presence of Bucklanders at Bag End with grim determination, but the disquiet he suffered when his master
left Hobbiton in their company was beyond description. It was not, however, a justification for impertinence and he
slanted his gaze sideways to gauge the effect of his remark.

"Quite," answered Frodo, no hint of dismay in his voice. "Surely anyone habituated to the conveniences of a capacious
hole would scorn a stranger's back pasture. Nonetheless, I'm glad of the chance to stretch my legs on such a glorious
day."

Sam would rather have stretched his in the garden where the odds of enjoying seven square meals a day were better
than fair to middling, but as he had been obliged to attend the Gathering for want of an excuse to stay at home, he could
see no reason not to fill his eyes with the magnificent prospect before him. Frodo had lapsed into a brown study and
showed no inclination to resume his tale of Gilden Smiles' supper at the Golden Perch. If Sam were to hang back, the
humdrum appurtenances of the rural Westfarthing -- upflung hills steep-sided as pudding bowls, the narrow path like a
ravelled thread between heaven and earth -- would be enhanced by the immense, and currently oblivious, charms of
Frodo Baggins, Esq. A woollen-clad rump and a fine pair of legs were a consolation to a hobbit whose supper was
some hours away and when Frodo turned his head to examine a maze gill on a fallen oak trunk Sam decided that he
would forego the ham pie indefinitely if he could feast instead on his master's dark and tangled hair. He knew little of
conveniences and scorned neither a capacious hole nor a stranger's back pasture in the right company, but as nothing
was to be gained from drawing Frodo's attention to his presence with an observation on their sleeping arrangements,
he walked as softly as a mouse in a thicket, content to remain unnoticed in the rear.   He might have made a good-
natured rejoinder on the delight to be had from fair weather but the usual hobbit pleasantries came reluctantly to his lips
when there were weightier matters to consider.

He considered them for what might have been hours, while Frodo twirled his walking stick or stooped to pluck a field
poppy for his button-hole or whistled through his teeth in a way that would have been irritating if he had been a
Brandybuck and not a Baggins. By the time Sam raised his eyes from his considerations or, strictly speaking, his
master's considerations, their shadows had begun to ease out at right angles to the path and his thirst was so great
that no mere humbug could quench it. He put on his hat and squinted at the hills to either hand, their round tops
crowned with spinneys of elm and beech.

"A fellow could build a tidy hole in these parts if he was averse to company. No room for taters though."

"Indeed not," said Frodo, leaning on his stick and assessing the terrain. "Nor anything else requiring a flattish bit of
land. The run-off during the winter months must be ferocious. If it weren't for the oat-grass we'd be in mud to our
ankles." He waved his free hand towards the furrowed track which vanished into a fold of darker green at a distance of
some two hundred paces. "But I should deem it worth the effort if we uncovered a patch of mushrooms in that pine
woods ahead. What do you say?"

Sam grunted. A rummage in his pockets had failed to turn up so much as a sliver of humbug and the last bottle of
ginger beer was inaccessible. The lack of alehouses in this corner of the Westfarthing would prove to be more
troublesome than a bare trencher unless he found something to keep his mouth from going dry as a dwarf's bath towel
whenever he looked at his master's --

"Slippery Jacks," he said quickly. "You won't find Penny Buns till Afterlithe."

"I didn't expect to," replied Frodo as he stabbed his stick into the squelchy turf and pressed onwards. "I may not be a
jobbing gardener, but I have a copy of Mushrooms Demystified in the pantry. A Slippery Jack in the hand is worth two
Penny Buns in the bush."

"Chance would be a fine thing," murmured Sam, against his better judgement. That he had toyed with a similar idea
while preparing Frodo's garden for the onslaught of Odo Proudfoot's great-nephew was one thing. That Frodo should
skirt the edges of impropriety, however unwittingly, was altogether different. He plucked at his felt hat as it was nearer
than his forelock. "Begging your --"

Frodo twisted his neck to glance at Sam with a confused expression. "Why should you? The dearth of Penny Buns in
May is scarcely your fault. Or does your gardening sleight-of-hand extend to mushrooms out-of-season?"

"No, sir," said Sam, nevertheless aware that he had been remiss in not having broached the subject of a mushroom log
at Bag End.

"Then we're agreed that a young Slippery Jack with a pale, firm stem is edible?"

"Aye, though Dad broke out in a rash last Yule 'cos of--"

"I remember the incident," said Frodo, as they came into the shade of the outlying trees. The sunlight fell in hazy bands
through the sparse branches and the ground was crisp with needles. "We all do. Several fellows at the Ivy Bush
offered to stand him a pint of bitter if he would stop telling the story. I can only imagine what it must have been like at
Number 3."

"Awkward, sir, though I say it as shouldn't." Gaffer Gamgee had endeavoured to wring the utmost from his curious
infirmity and if the Widow Rumble hadn’t attracted the interest of her neighbours by twisting an ankle on a clump of
couch-grass, the remains of the wretched fungus would have made the rounds of the public taverns for a six-month.
"Shall I help you off with your knapsack?"

"Not at present, but if you could dig out a clean hankie from the left-hand pocket we can begin filling it with these spindly
white thingumbobs half-buried in the leaf mould. I'd have brought my copy of Mushrooms Demystified but your expertise
is more reliable than 357 pages with 21 plates and numerous woodcuts, one very similar to the other. What do you
think? Are they edible?"

Sam was loath to admit that his knowledge of the Shire reached no farther than three leagues from the Bywater Pond
with the exception of Harding's homestead, the family business in Tighfield, and a string of country inns between
Hobbiton and Gammidge. He thumbed through his memories of Figwort's Seed Catalogue and The Planter's Calendar
but to no avail.

"I wouldn't cross the road for summat so tiddy," he said at last, "not even if I was a poor hobbit in want of meat and drink.
Nan Gamgee had a bonnet that was uncommon like them and one summer -- "

"Perhaps not," said Frodo briskly, "but size, as I'm sure you realise, is irrelevant in this case. If we can't make a meal of
them we can at least put them in a salad. A sprinkle of lemon juice, a sprig of rosemary...   If recollection serves, an
entry in Flirtatious Fungi speaks of a bell-shaped mushroom of modest aspect that smells and tastes of radishes. My
nose is full of pine pollen. However -- "

He knelt and sniffed the caps, his bottom swaying in a manner reminiscent of a hog after white truffles.

"Red Comet," he announced and popped a portion of the cluster into his mouth before Sam was able to offer a word of
caution. He chewed it thoughtfully but with no obvious signs of enjoyment and swallowed it down in one go.

"Well, sir, and how was it?" asked Sam, a glimmer of mirth in his tone at Frodo's evident distaste.

"Somewhat tough and flavourless when weighed against the merits of the Amethyst Deceiver," replied Frodo, rising with
an effort. "And not as vivacious as the Field Blewit. Unfortunately, I can't see anything but these in our immediate
vicinity. We would fare better if we came this way in autumn with rush baskets and a mushroom hunter's manual."

"Happen we could." Sam would be too busy with the harvest to oblige his master but should Frodo have a mind for
such a venture once the frost was on the turnips, he could invite Master Merry or that Fredegar Bolger who was a
staunch trencher-mate of injudicious habits. Sam would dine on Penny Buns from Bywater Wood in the comfort of
Number 3.

"We shan't bother with a salad," said Frodo, retrieving the handkerchief from Sam and cramming it into the waistband of
his breeches. "In fact, we shan't bother with mushroom-hunting at all today; there will be other opportunities. Should I
note the location on the off-chance that we travel this road in November?   It's a pretty spot and astonishingly -- green.
Have you noticed?"

"Green, sir?" Sam stared at the dull brown trunks, the sparse undergrowth of bilberry and fern, and the bristly mat of
spent needles. A dense cloud of gnats ghosted skywards in a shaft of light. "It's no greener than it was ten minutes
ago, if you don't mind me -- "

"Green, my dear Sam, is the hub around which the heart of every hobbit must inevitably turn. The scent of parsley or
new-mown grass, the iridescence of a hummingbird's feathers, the stonecrop that trembles beneath the careless foot
of the itinerant shepherd, the mating-call of an amorous woodpecker in the hedgerow." He spread his arms wide and
breathed so deeply that he might have overbalanced into the bracken if Sam hadn't put out a restraining hand. "The hills
throb and swell with the irresistible greenness of spring in -- in --"

He paused. "Where are we again? My sense of direction has gone through the sieve."

Sam's brows drew together. "West of the Water and a half day's journey from Hobbiton. Those mushrooms --"

Frodo flung an arm across Sam's shoulders and his voice fell to a whisper. "We'll gather a sackful on our return. The S-
Bs have been angling for a supper invitation since Yule. If you were to sneak one or two into the appetisers they might --
that is to say --"

He leaned forward until his nose was an inch from Sam's. "Have they always been green? Blue is more usual in the
Westfarthing, of course, but I've often thought it a pity. Green is the pinnacle of -- "

"You'd have to quiz my Gaffer," said Sam, thinking that not even Old Noakes' infamous remedy for gout had made such a
pickle of his master's eyes. They were darker than bog whortleberries and far too close given the circumstances. Sam
shifted nervously, his placket tighter than a tick. "As to the other -- if they had a smatch of wild mushroom croquettes
there'd be no keeping Mistress Lobelia from the cutlery drawer nor Mr. Otho from the cellar."

"Psht!"

Frodo's smirk was unbecoming to the owner of three virgates and an assortment of perquisites though not to be
wondered at in the great-nephew of Hildifons Took.   He prodded Sam's midriff.

"Don't be a spoil-pudding. Bilbo was quite wrong to fob her off with a case of spoons. I've shared an excessive number
of minor treasures and could afford to share the rest in the interests of -- of -- " His gaze meandered down the length of
Sam's person and came to rest a smidgen to the left of his blackthorn stick. "What splendid toes!"

"Thank you, sir," said Sam cautiously, unwilling to be persuaded by even the most fulsome flattery to slip a peculiar
fungus into Lobelia Sackville-Baggins's supper dish. A hobbit of means, eccentricities notwithstanding, was compelled
to treat his lesser relations with a measure of respect no matter how it pained him and so must his servants.

"But why won't they stay put?"

Sam shrugged. "Mr. Bilbo used to ask that of my Gaffer after a bottle of Old Winyards, not but what he might have done
so when he was sober as a shirriff; no one at the Ivy Bush has a kind word for rackrenters. Dad says the Sackville
holdings will have run to seed by now.   Plantain and thistles he -- "

"No, Sam, your feet. They're surging towards me like the froth on a pint of Hardacre's Best." Frodo bent over and
touched one, a look of eager anticipation crossing his features. "They feel normal enough and there are five little
piggies on each of them."

"I should think so," cried Sam, hastily pulling in his toes. "It's your noddle that wants fixing, as you'd know in two ticks if
you hadn't eaten a dodgy mushroom. And unless you plan to eat another -- which I hope you don't though my Gaffer
would scold me for giving advice to gentry -- we ought to be off."

Frodo made a rude noise and might have followed it with an uncouth gesture if his hands hadn't been busily engaged in
exploring the forest litter for a trace of Sam's great toes. "A Hobbiton lad in a hurry, whose feet were astoundingly furry-"

"None o' that, sir." Sam grabbed Frodo's elbow and dragged him upright, as if the mere fact of a steadying presence
could knock some sense into his master. "Come along out of here, or you'll be arse over teakettle in the ferns."

"Righty-ho," said Frodo with a last intake of pine-scented air and a wistful glance at the offending mushrooms. "As you
seem keen on the idea of being somewhere else, perhaps you can explain where we're going while I invent a suitable
rhyme for 'furry'."

"Gammidge," said Sam, hooking his arm through Frodo's to prevent any further assaults on flirtatious fungi. If they were
very lucky, the afternoon would have worn to a close before Frodo had thoroughly explored the possibilities of 'slurry',
'worry' and 'scurry'. By then, he would be tucked up safe in his bedroll with a belly full of pork sausage. The trouble was,
thought Sam, as they regained the path and easily fell into step, that he might choose to recite his bit of doggerel at the
Gathering where eighty unsympathetic Gamgees could judge his sanity. The Bagginses were known for spontaneous
versifying but a Gamgee had never been the subject of it. "Seven leagues nor'-west of Tighfield."

"Ah yes. The inhibiting effect of frigid pond water on the jolly old hobbit nutmegs." Frodo scrunched his eyes shut as the
long rays of the westering sun smote his face. He gripped Sam's sleeve. "Stap my vitals! Are you sure we haven't
strayed too near the Southfarthing?   Bilbo's book on natural anomalies doesn't mention glowing vegetation in -- in --
Where are we, my dear? I don't recognise the place."

It was the longest day of Sam's life. Frodo's awakening to the wonders of oat-grass required that he pause at least
once every hundred yards to express his admiration for its colour and growing habits. He speculated on the reasons for
the varying shades of ground cover and arrived, by ways inscrutable to Sam, at the truth of the adage that grass is
frequently greener on the far side of the hedge. Had the landscape not been a monotonous succession of balding hills
punctuated by the odd sentinel beech or gnarled ash, he would have frozen in his tracks ten times in as many minutes
to remark on the beauties of the Shire in blossom.

It was, however, and by dint of a firm hand on his arm he was kept from suffering a mischance though not from
pronouncing at regular intervals that some spot or other was 'quite the greenest he had ever seen.' Sam allowed as
how the spot in question was greener than most, if you cared to make a comparison, but might be pleasanter when
viewed from the window of a public house with Bywater beer on tap. If he was disturbed by the warmth of Frodo's hip
nudging his own more often than was strictly necessary, he tried not to show it.

By late afternoon, Frodo's outbursts had dwindled to the fanciful conjectures of a frustrated scholar of plant lore and
thence to the shamefaced acknowledgement that he had, painful as it was to speak of it, eaten a mushroom Flirtatious
Fungi had warned him against. Sam was sufficiently convinced by this confession to leave off holding on to his arm and
they resumed their proper places with Frodo to the fore, swinging his stick as if nothing untoward had occurred between
lunch and the much-anticipated supper.

They had been following the course of a chalk stream for the better part of an hour, the sadly neglected ham pie a
burden in Sam's knapsack so long after his accustomed tea-time, when the sun dipped behind the westernmost hill
with a nod of dismissal and the path, the limpid leaf-flecked water, and the stands of sweet flag on the near bank fell
into shadow.

"That was quick," said Sam, who was unused to sunsets that nipped off smartly without a fare-thee-well. His lantern
hung out of reach at the base of his pack, as did everything he had wanted that day apart from the bag of humbugs, but if
they were to continue on until the last shred of yellow had faded into night he would need its light to make camp. "P'raps
I wouldn't dig a smial in such a darkish corner of the Farthing. These hills..."

"I've yet to meet a hobbit who doesn't like walking in the dark," said Frodo, in a tone of voice that prohibited any requests
for help with the lantern. "The ancient alliance of Harfoots and dwarves bestowed on us a penchant for nightly strolls
and confined spaces."

"Come again?" Sam strolled to the Green Dragon on Friday evenings in dry weather but he preferred the bedrooms at
Bag End to his own cramped pigeon-hole next to the airing cupboard as would any sensible lad.

Frodo stopped in his tracks and appeared to study the sunset for several moments before turning to Sam with
somewhat of his old expression. The mushroom had evidently left his system.

"You didn't suppose," he said stiffly, "that we gained little from the association other than a rudimentary knowledge of
mechanical devices and a fondness for cuckoo clocks?"

Sam sucked his teeth in dismay.

"T'ain't my job to suppose, Mr. Frodo. My job is to sow the nasturtians and tidy up indoors after someone I shan't name
has taken too much. If that someone tumbles into a stream 'cos the night's as black as the inside of a tinker's budget,
I'll fetch him out."

"Tumble?" replied Frodo, seemingly prepared to overlook the disgraceful presumption of his gardener. "I have it on
good authority that hobbits are sure-footed. If you have any doubts on that score you might want to consult Concerning
Hobbits, with Sundry Remarks on Pipeweed. The Curator at the Mathom-house will be more than happy to show it to
you. It states on page 13 that they' -- meaning hobbits -- 'are inclined to be fat and do not hurry unnecessarily; they are
nonetheless nimble and deft in their movements'. Cheeky bugger but not far off the mark."

"Hogwash," answered Sam, placing a surreptitious hand on his mid-section. "I'd wager that not even Mr. Bilbo's
dwarvish friends travelled without a lantern. What's the sense of walking in the dark when we could be roasting
sausages and --"

Frodo drew himself up to his full height and stared down his nose at Sam.

"You're never going to leave this alone, are you?"

"Sir?" It was a seemly nose with a flare to the nostrils that spoke of a decided will to have its way provided that no one
else was greatly inconvenienced. Sam had often admired it.

"Since the road goes ever on and on for thirteen leagues, shouldn't we forge ahead? A stroll by star-light with a merry
tune on our lips, the call of a night-jar... How better to spend the evening?"

"Sausages," mumbled Sam, without knowing whether it was an oath or a suggestion. If he had approached his master
when Frodo had mentioned the unusual itch -- and he might, at the very least, have hinted that cures for common
ailments could be found in the garden -- there would be no nonsense now about walking. Granted, hobbits were less
sure-footed in the dark, but Sam didn't need the sun to know where to put a thing.

"Oh, all right." Frodo would have shrugged off his knapsack in the middle of the path had Sam not pointed towards a
stand of alders clustered near a lichen-covered outcropping a short distance away. There was a grassy hollow amidst
their roots big enough for two hobbits to sleep side by side and an abundance of dead branches and moss to build a
fire. The limestone would give shelter from prevailing winds if the weather became blustery although the sky augured a
clear night and an equally fine morning.

"Capital," said Frodo and, while Sam lit the lantern and laid out plates, cutlery and tea-kettle in a neat row, he swiftly
gathered the kindling -- humming a tune which Sam suspected was yet another version of that tiresome verse of Mr.
Bilbo's -- and soon had a fire burning at the entrance to the dell.

"You promised a cheerful song," said Sam, when Frodo showed no sign of letting up. His notion of cheerfulness
mostly involved comforts of the obvious sort such as goose down mattresses, pints of mulled wine, and steaming steak
and kidney puddings, but since he was waiting for the fire to settle before popping the link of sausages into the pan he
was in the mood for a frivolous entertainment. The sky had deepened to cobalt aside from a faint glow on the horizon no
wider than a strip of lemon rind, the kettle had begun to sputter, and if Frodo wasn't as easy a travelling companion as
Sam had expected, much could be blamed on the mushroom. "If it's not inconvenient."

"So I did," replied Frodo. He unfurled his bed roll and, drawing out his pipe, sat down with his legs crossed at the
ankle. As far as Sam could tell by his relaxed posture, he was amused rather than inconvenienced.

"I take it you're not partial to The Road Goes Ever On? No, well --   Bilbo's creativity suffered a decline in later years but
his bath songs were highly spiced to the end."

Sam relished a glass of green ginger wine at Yuletide. He seasoned the Oatbarton hotpot too liberally to suit the Gaffer
and dosed his weed with cinnamon. That his old master might have been of a similarly warm temperament had never
occurred to him. He thought about it as he sliced the pie and set the sausages each by each in the cast iron pan, and
the more he thought the less he liked the idea that a hobbit of one hundred and eleven would sing rude ballads in his
bath.

"There's no denying that a pinch of mace can be the making of a veal and ham pie," he said, "but the hard-boiled egg at
the centre is the tastiest part."

He had been remiss in not adding a half-dozen of rough-skinned potatoes to his pack. He could have roasted them
among the coals or fried them with the sausages. If Tighfield Russets were to be had in Nettlebed at this time of year...

"Taters," he said, half to himself. "Yellow onion, sharp white cheese from Tookbank. Marjoram."

"Sam?"

"Mr. Bilbo's bath-songs are his own business," said Sam, too occupied with the fire to meet Frodo's inquiring look. "My
Gaffer lets wind that can be heard clear down the Row. He well-nigh blew the door off Daddy Twofoot's woodshed
t'other week. Hear all, see all, and hold thi peace, as my Nan would have said."

Frodo's pipe hiccupped a spurt of smoke.

"In that case," he said, brushing an invisible strand of Old Toby from his breeches, "I'll have a shot at Easy and Slow,
sung to the tune of Courting in the Kitchen. Bilbo's off-the-cuff versification will seem a damp squib when compared to
Master Hamfast's morning exercises, if you'll pardon the expression, but you may find it stimulating on a chill night."

He cleared his throat and began in a light tenor,

"A servant bold from Needlehole
Whose attributes were striking
Displayed a disregard for dress
Much to his master's liking --

His threadbare breeches failed to hide
The size of his ambition,
And bets were made on when he might
Effect an intromission.

But since the master's pedigree
Was famed throughout the shire
Few lads there were who had the balls
To dominate the squire.

Oh, gentle listener, shed a tear
For youths of high position
Who, spite of rank and lineage
Take pleasure in submission.

One morning by the potting bench -- "

"He never!" exclaimed Sam, unable to contain his startlement under the guise of frowning at the sausages and
unwilling to hear more of servants with outsized ambitions. Mr. Bilbo had spent too much time in distant lands
consorting with dwarves in barrels.

"Indeed he did," answered Frodo nimbly. "Frequently, as it happens, and I but a young lad. Shall I help with that
sausage? It's getting away from you."

"No sausage can withstand the wielder of a well-forged tool," said Sam, waving his fork over the pan as if he were about
to conjure one of Gandalf's dwarf-candles. "Threadbare britches, my eye! Stop your mouth with a slice o' that pie while I
finish these beggars. When we've done, I've summat to show you."

"I'll note your disapproval in the private edition of Bath-house Ballads," said Frodo, and tucked into the pie with so many
signs of appreciation for Sam's culinary know-how that it was impossible to question him on the whys and wherefores
of Courting in the Kitchen.

Sam had expected a rebuke for his ill-tempered outburst but Frodo was apparently little disposed to pursue the matter.
He neither hummed, nor sang, nor said a word regarding the crisp skin of the pork sausages, the excellence of the pie,
or the crumbliness of the jam tarts. He ate his supper in a silence as profound as Gaffer Gamgee's and, when he had
scraped the last smear of hard-boiled egg from his plate, he lay back against the alder roots and resumed the smoking
of his pipe.

A quarter hour passed in this manner, during which Sam considered the chances of a well-born lad surrendering his all
to one whose ancestors had grown mangold wurzels. He scoured the dishes as he considered because night was
coming on and he had yet to decide whether Frodo would notice if their blankets were closer than the limited space
required. Sam was used to sharing a bed with Halfred but the mattress in the master's room at Bag End was wider
than Number 3's parlour and seldom shared with anyone, or so the common talk at the Ivy Bush had it.

"Nose-pokers," he said aloud, and made a great clatter with the frying pan to register his opinion of hobbits who couldn't
mind their own fish.

"I shan't appreciate whatever it is," said Frodo, opening one eye and squinting down the stem of his pipe, "if you don't
show it to me while I'm awake."

"Sir?"

"You promised something once we'd finished supper. I've been cudgelling my brains to think what it might be but I'm
afraid you have me baffled."

Sam supposed that it was easier to be baffled if you had fallen asleep after an unforeseen encounter with a mushroom
and were reluctant to admit that months of study had knocked the stuffing out of your get-up-and-go.

"My Nan," he said, choosing two straight branches from the stack of unused kindling, "won a trophy at the Tighfield and
District Agricultural Exhibition of 1352. She'd have won the following year too only she sprained her wrist digging post-
holes."

"A formidable hobbit in all respects," said Frodo, as he knocked the dottle from his pipe. "How did she win?"

"I'll tell you in a jiffy," replied Sam and reached into his knapsack for the packet of sweetmeats which Marigold had made
the previous night. "If you'll take one of those sticks we can -- "

"Fend off trolls in the night? Face down a pack of wolves with a tinder box and a few stray pieces of firewood?" Frodo
picked up the longest branch and flourished it at Sam as though he were testing the strength of a new fire poker. "I
regret lending Bilbo's collection of dwarvish ironmongery to the Mathom-house. I might have found room in my pack for
a --"

Sam clucked his tongue.

"There are no trolls in the Shire, Mr. Frodo, and no wolves west of the Misty Mountains. Harding sets great store by Perry-
the-Winkle's tales but I'm not easily bamboozled. And if you don't stop wagging that thing about you'll put someone's eye
out." He unwrapped the brown paper and shoved one of the battered lumps onto the point of Frodo's stick. "That'll keep
you busy."

"Busy doing what?" asked Frodo, squeezing the object between his thumb and forefinger. "I presided at the Michel
Delving Benevolent Society's Summer Fair last Overlithe and if someone had submitted a dumpling on a stick we'd have
bust our buttons. Excuse the vulgarism."

"Pish-tosh," said Sam. "It's a marshmallow. Nan's folk came from Sarn Ford where they grew mallows for physic.
When Nan married Roper Gamgee, she brought a half-bushel of mallow root in her pony-trap. It went like hot cakes."

"I don't need physicking, or no more than any hobbit who spends the winter in quiet contemplation of his books. Am I to
infer that you were about to foist a purgative on me without my say-so? I'd have been kept very busy indeed."

"Not half as busy as my Nan's egg beater," answered Sam, piercing one with the second stick and holding it to the fire.
"I lugged these marshmallows from Hobbiton as a surprise on our first night even though a pair of wool stockings
would have served you better. Just place your stick alongside o' mine, and you'll see summat to make your jaw drop."

"Aunt Dora wears baize stockings but I've never -- Bless me!" exclaimed Frodo, as his marshmallow blossomed into a
flaming torch and began to sag on the branch like an old cow's udder.

"Mind your thumml-teas," said Sam, and he snatched the charred mass from the heat with a practised wrist, hanging on
to it for a moment while the sugar cooled before offering it to Frodo. "There's a knack to marshmallows."

"So I gather. Yours is the colour of a ripe cobnut. However -- " He peeled back the crisp cocoon and dipped his tongue
in the sticky filling. "Mine is as satisfying despite being overdone.   Are trolls attracted to marshmallows? I should think
they would be."

In Sam's opinion, a troll that had its own best interests at heart would toss the marshmallows on the rubbish tip and
make a bee-line for his master. A troll who, at this very instant, might be perched on the crest of the limestone ledge
would be enthralled by Frodo's curved lips, his willful chin and the mocking slant of his eyebrows.

"Not as I know of," he said, positioning two marshmallows in tight proximity on the end of his rod. "Hobbits are juicier.
Bake 'em, toast 'em, fry and roast 'em!, as Mr. Bilbo might have said. There's naught like a nice bit of crackling."

"Some of us would differ," replied Frodo, with a stealthy glance at Sam's makeshift tackle. "Furthermore, Bilbo's goblin
song was fabricated as neither goblins nor trolls are able to carry a tune. In fact, they made rude gestures with their
toasting-forks and indulged in low jibes."

"Did they?" Sam turned the marshmallows over the flames till the skins were a match for Bandobras Took's riding
leathers, then tugged one from the alder branch and handed it to Frodo, his fingertips accidentally brushing the inside of
his master's wrist. "The dirty dogs."

"Quite." Frodo averted his gaze to the barely discernible glint of the nameless stream, overhung now with stars instead
of bridewort and willows. Something as light as the trailing edge of a dust web touched the curls on Sam's neck as he
admired the length of Frodo's lashes and the pugnacious set of his jaw.

"And although goblins and trolls have a preference for dwarves," Frodo continued, drawing the tails of his cloak around
him and tucking his feet out of sight, "they might experiment with a plump hobbit or two when provender is scarce.   I
agree that Perry-the-Winkle wasn't the most dependable of witnesses, but if the scent of caramelised sugar were to
reach whatever lurks beyond the range of our firelight --"

"Aye?"

"Wouldn't we convey a more formidable appearance if we sat close together?" said Frodo, catching Sam's eye across
the half-empty marshmallow packet. "Your hat is likely to scatter the wits of boggarts, knockers, and puddlefeet. It does
mine."

"'Tis," said Sam, stroking the brim with an affection undimmed by the taunts of Miller Sandyman. Yet a tall hat might be
the very thing to spark the curiosity of a wandering troll who was in the market for a stout dwarf. The Gaffer had not been
the only one to observe that Sam would have made a fine addition to Mr. Bilbo's dwarven company. "But, sir --"

"I'll raise my hood" said Frodo, in a tone that brooked no argument. He moved the remains of their afters to one side so
that he could sit with his grey-clad shoulder by Sam's russet one, his feet stretched towards the fire. "Shall I sing
another verse to frighten the trolls?"

"There are no trolls in the Shire, sir."

"Of course not, but I haven't told you about Bilbo's last song. Let me see..."

And if the troll who had already taken note of Frodo's willful chin had descended for a closer inspection of this singular
marvel, he would have been vanquished by the strains of Blow the Candle In mounting through the night air in a happy
conjunction of two voices.

Part 3 Part 5