Tolkien @ MindSay

I imagine when I was a teen I worked my way though various forms of literature.  Science fiction, fantasy, greek mythology, not to mention the more realistic if just as wild stuff described by Hunter Thompson and Kurt Vonnegut and George Orwell.  I enjoyed a lot of it, stayed with science fiction for a bit longer than the others, and of course participated in the fandom of The Hobbit, by Tolkien. But I put all that behind me by the time I got to college and immersed myself in the realism of books about police, spies, Watergate and Viet Nam.

But during those earlier years I never put any of the stories I had read into any real historical context.  I never connected the dots between popular fantasy-fiction and true ancient mythology.

I bring it up today because I just got a Christmas package from my Icelandic penpals.  I am slowly learning a little about Iceland, about the language, and about the history.  I have not yet tackled the Sagas, writings of early Iceland from the era of the 10th and 11th century. 

 

But this year, I was sent a statue of Odin.

 

WHO or WHAT is Odin?  I hadn't a clue! 

Two years ago they (my trucker buddy class) related to me their story of Christmas which included an ugly troll named Gryla who steals naughty children!  And she has a cat who EATS bad kids!  She and her husband also have 13 children who have become friendly yet mischeivous and each one comes down from the mountain to leave a gift in the shoes which children  leave on windowsills.  So Icleandic Christmas involves 13 days of gift giving, starting today. Last year I received a deck of cards that held pictures of the little trolls with the great names like "bowl licker, window peeper, door sniffer, sheep worrier (ruh-roh!), and candle beggar.

 

This morning I had to turn to the great god google and learn, with help from Wikipedia, about Odin. 

Odin himself is part of legend/lore/mythology and one of the Norse Gods.  What I found fascinating in reading about him : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Odin , was the interconnection with several things from modern lore that I have heard mentioned, but never was able to put in any perspective.

For instance Vallhalla.  I have heard reference to it for years, and sort of lumped it with the other mythological place of El Dorado.  It was a reverential place and that was about all I knew.  Well, Odin, among his many characteristics, is a god of War, as well as of poetry, victory and the hunt.  One of his activities is to recognize the fiercest of warriors who are lost in battle.  He is assisted in this task by the princess Valkrie - another character I have heard of but never knew anything about.  Once chosen, the warrior spirits are brought to Valhalla to feast and await the final battle.  (in the final battle, Odin is victor but the world is destroyed.  From the remains of his adversary, he creates the earth (the body), rocks (teeth and bones), rivers and lakes (blood) sky (skull) and clouds (brains).  Odin then chose two trees and into them blew breath and life;  one of Odins brothers then embued them with brains and feelings; and his third brother gave them sight and hearing.  One tree was now man, named Ash, and the other was woman, named Embla and all human kind came from them. 

 

Odin is also the father of Thor.

Odin is accompianied by two ravens called Thought and Memory.

 

There are just so many incredible interconnnections you can follow from the above linked wikipedia entry it will take me days to follow them all and hopefully, gain a better understanding of the myths.  The Irish, like the Norse, have mythical characters that represented qualities and traits.  Good battled evil for things such as love, freedom, and eternal peace.  Giants in both realms were the forces of evil.  Bad men who died in Norse belief (as well as men who simply did not die heroically in battle) went to the 9th world,

 

a place called . . .

 

wait for it! . . .   

 

hel. 

You have to start reading yourself to learn that hel was a realm lorded over by Hel,

a goddess sent there by . . . Odin!

Welcome to Hel :

 

I'm going to try to not become a geek all over again, but I'm going to enjoy the next few days!

"Oi don’t know, Mr. Frodo..." Sam said slowly as he sniffed the dark brown glass bottle suspiciously. He made a face, stuck the cork back into the bottle quickly and then shoved it back into Olo Pott’s hand.

Mr. Pott was undaunted. Equipped with a polished silver spoon, he drawled as he practically pushed the bottle under Sam’s nose, "Well, why don’t you at least sample it?"
Sam promptly pushed it right back. Olo turned his attention to me next, holding it so close to my face that my eyes practically crossed as I read the words scribbled on the label in an elaborate hand,"Dr. Otton’s Famous Feel Good Tonic."

I raised a hand in gentle but firm protest and, thankfully, Olo withdrew the bottle.

"You ‘onestly expect someone to put somethin’ that foul smellin’ into their mouth?" Sam commented.

Behind us, from where we stood on the front porch of Bag End, Mr. Pott’s pony snorted and shook himself in his harness, causing the conglomeration of pots, pans and various glassware in Olo’s rattletrap cart to clank and tinkle in discordant notes.

"Most things good for what ails you smell bad, but do wonders for the soul." Olo bandied back. "Ain’t that right Mr. Baggins?"

I looked at Sam with raised eyebrows before I replied, "That may well be, Mr. Potts, but I don’t believe Sam or myself has a need for your tonic today."

But Olo wasn’t about to leave without making a sale. "This ain’t just any tonic. This here is Dr. Otton’s Famous Feel Good Tonic. It’s not supposed to wait on a shelf until you get sick. A spoonful in the morning and another before bed, every day, will keep a body healthy!"

Sam snorted under his breath. " Oi think I’d get sick from the smell of it alone...."

It was hard for me to keep from laughing outright, for Sam’s thoughts followed my own. However, this didn’t seem to phase Mr. Potts. "Half a moment," he said, as he scooted back to his overloaded cart and began to rummage through the pile of odds and ends. He returned with what looked to be a piece of stained and tattered wool. "Well then...can I interest you in this here mighty fine rug?"

‘Fine’ was not a word I would have used. Ugly and ratty leapt to mind, for the rug had obviously seen better days--much better days.

"Just feel how soft it is. A baby could lay on this with no problem."

I shrewdly chose not to, but Mr. Potts thrust the article in my face. The smell of the rug was not much better that the odour given off by the afore mentioned tonic.

"Thank you, but I’m not in the market for a rug today, Mr. Potts." I coughed.

"See ‘ere!" said Sam. "We ain’t interested in nothin’ you ‘ave to sell."

Potts remained resolute. Instead of leaving, he merely returned to his cart and commenced to dig through his wares, pulling items out of his cart and piling them here and there on the ground, all the while keeping up a one-sided conversation with us, which was rather difficult to decipher at moments for his head was practically buried in his considerable pile of goods.

"Let me show you something I’ve been saving for a special customer; someone who’d appreciate such a valuable artifact."

If the items piled on ground were any indication, I seriously doubted that the peddler’s cart contained anything that could actually be deemed ‘valuable.’

"Ah! Here it is!" He climbed off the cart holding a small wooden box, rather plain but for the strange symbols which adorned it. He held it as if it was the most precious thing he possessed. "This came from the far off Sunlands!"

"The Sunlands?" I heard Sam say. There was an unmistakable hint of interest in Sam’s voice.

"From Harad, to be precise." Potts confirmed.

"Harad?" Sam repeated, his curiosity piqued even more. "Oi’ve heard of that place. Oliphants come from there."

Olo smiled and patted the box. "Why, yes they do, my lad. Mighty strange creatures they are, too. Not that I’ve ever seen one myself, of course!"

"What are the symbols?" I indicated the carving on the box. However, I didn’t really expect Mr. Potts to offer an actual translation.

"That’s the writing of Harad."

Sam, on the other hand, apparently did expect a translation, for he asked, "What does it say?"

Olo drew himself up importantly. "It tells the story of the valuable treasure in this box, which belonged to a very important, very famous and wealthy queen of the Swertings."

Now, I’ve never claimed to be the worldliest of hobbits, but neither am I the most gullible, either. However, I got the distinct impression that Mr. Potts was feeding us a line of bull and thoroughly enjoying himself in the bargain. He held the mysterious box in front of Sam’s curious eyes as if it were a carrot dangling before a hungry pony.

"Can’t be an Oliphant in that..." Sam mused.

"No, not an Oliphant. I’d have to have a much bigger wagon to hold such a beast!" The peddler chuckled.

"Oi didn’t mean a live one, o’ course." Sam replied in a rather miffed tone. "Oi was thinkin’ more along the lines of a statue or somethin’."

"Well..." Potts was milking this for all it was worth. "You’re getting warmer..."

Sam crossed his arms. "All right then... what is in the box? Or, maybe you don’t ‘ave nothin’ in there. Maybe it’s just an old empty box."

"Oh there’s something in here, all right. But, the box itself is worth more than all the bottles of tonic in my cart!"

I figured that wasn’t saying much, but I held my tongue. To Sam’s credit, he appeared unimpressed as well, saying, "If it ain’t a likeness of an Oliphant, Oi ain’t interested." Then, in the very next instant he gave in to the curiosity that was overwhelming him. "So...what is it?"

The peddler glanced furtively about, as if checking for any other hobbits that might be lurking about the door step of Bag End. Slowly he began to lift the lid of the little box...

I must admit that by now, against my better judgement, my interest in the contents of the mysterious box had been thoroughly stimulated, and as Sam gazed into the coffer, I found myself stealing a peek over his shoulder. Resting on a threadbare velvet lining, was a small wooden carving of one of the oddest looking creatures I had ever seen.

Mr. Potts removed the carving from its container as carefully as if it were made of delicate glass, then displayed it in front of our faces so that we could get a better look at the uniqueness of the beast.

Sam’s face fell. "Why, it ain’t nothin’ but an ugly, old goat!"
I had to agree. The carving depicted an animal that did somewhat resemble a misshapen goat, sporting a long ewe neck, even longer legs, offset by knobby knees and oversized, splayed feet. But the strangest part of its anatomy was the large hump that it carried on its back, upon which rested an object that looked like some sort of saddle.

"Mr. Gamgee, you hurt my feelings!" Olo replied. "This carving is as rare as the animal itself. This is what is called a Ka’mel, a creature that is taller than the tallest of the big folk, able to travel great distances over burning sands with no need to drink for days at a time!"

"What’s that big knot?" Sam pointed to the spot on the little statue’s back.

"That is its hump." Mr. Potts answered in a matter-of-fact way.

"Is that supposed to be a saddle strapped onto its hump?" I enquired, taking a closer look at the object carved into the statue’s back.

Potts nodded and Sam snorted in disbelief. "Why, a person would topple right off of anything as deformed as that!"

"Oh no," Potts protested, "Ka’mels are a very important means of getting about in the deserts of the Sunlands. And this particular animal wasn’t deformed. All Ka’mels have humps on their backs. That’s what keeps it from needing frequent drinks. It carries its own water in its hump."

Despite Mr. Potts’s obvious pride in his knowledge about such an unusual animal, I had a difficult time swallowing what sounded suspiciously like a load of rubbish.

Sam seemed to be a bit skeptical, as well. He regarded Potts with narrowed eyes for a moment, then shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and said simply, "Oi was ‘oping for an Oliphant."

It must have been all too apparent to Olo that he was dangerously close to losing a potential customer, so he resorted to the sales tactic of ‘laying it on pretty thick’ from that point on.

"Mr. Gamgee, among the inhabitants of Harad, the Ka’mel is far more revered than a mere Oliphant. They have tamed this creature to be more than a beast of burden. They are almost considered family members! Why, when a Ka’mel dies, the owner has it stuffed and mounted and put in a place of honour!"

"Stuffed and mounted?" Sam gave him a look of disbelief but I could tell his doubt was swiftly slipping away.

"And, look here," said the peddler, placing the statue in Sam’s hands. "You can see the craft and care that went into the making of this carving. Look at the gold, and the real rubies and emeralds trimming the saddle...not to mention the genuine diamond inset on the Ka’mel’s forehead."

The carving was decorative, if a bit gaudy, and I had reservations regarding the true value of the jewels enhancing it. But I could tell from the look on Sam’s face that the talented Mr. Potts was about to score a sale. I thought about intervening, but just as I was about to open my mouth, I heard Sam say, "Genuine diamond?"

"Sam..." I began.

" ‘Ow much for this? "

"Well now...", Potts took back the statue from Sam. "It’s quite valuable...However..." he scratched his head as he considered.

"However, what?" Asked Sam.

"Seeing as you’re so interested in Harad and exotic animals, perhaps... I could part with it... for something less than its true worth... provided you buy a bottle or two of Dr. Otton’s Famous Feel Good Tonic in the bargain."

I was certain that Sam would realise just how preposterous this deal sounded. It should have been the other way around if the statue was so precious—‘Buy this and I’ll throw in a couple of bottles of tonic?"

"Sam..." I interrupted again, but my friend had already pulled his little sack of coins out of his pocket. I tried again. "Sam, I’m not so sure this is a good idea..."

But Sam wasn’t listening. His eyes glowed at the thought of owning something seemingly as rare as the Ka’mel statue.

"Are you sure you can afford it, lad?" The peddler hedged.

"‘Ow much?"

Mr. Potts named his price, at which, even I couldn’t restrain a low whistle. Surely Sam would come to his senses. Instead, his face registered momentary disappointment, then he turned to me and asked in a hopeful voice, "Uh... um... Mr. Frodo... Oi... well... Oi don’t know how to ask... and well... maybe Oi shouldn’t dare to ask... um...."

"Sam, are you trying to ask me for a loan?"

"Oh no, Mr. Frodo!" Sam’s face coloured up. "More like an advance on my salary, that is... if you wouldn’t mind? You could just say it’s my wages for the next couple o’ months. Oi’d even be willing to take on more chores, if need be..."

"Sam! I couldn’t possibly...." I began to reply in surprise. At this, his look of disappointment deepened and I tried to explain. "Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t mind making you a loan, but I don’t feel at all right about you going without a salary for a month or two on account of an advance, nor do I think you should have to take on extra chores, especially for," and at my best words, I lowered my voice to a whisper, "an item that might not be worth the wood it’s carved on."

Mr. Potts cleared his throat and began to make a big production out of replacing the Ka’mel back in its wooden box.

Sam was beside himself. "Please, Sor! It’s from Far Harad. That alone makes it a rare treasure!"

I was tempted to remind Sam that he couldn’t really be sure the carving actually came from Harad. For all either of us knew, Mr. Potts’s cart might have contained a multitude of similar little, wooden Ka’mels adorned with coloured glass jewels.

But Sam had already made up his mind. A far as he was concerned, the carving was an item of uncommon worth.
So it was, that I found myself reaching into my own pocket, but not without a little haggling with Mr. Potts over a fair price. Or perhaps I should say, a price that was a little more reasonable and included the purchase of only one, as opposed to two, bottles of Dr. Otton’s Famous Feel Good Tonic.

We then watched as Olo Potts pocketed the money, climbed into his wagon and took up the reins. "You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Baggins. But, I’m sure that Mr. Gamgee couldn’t have a better friend. That was kind of you, helping him purchase such a fine, rare item!"

"Yes, yes. Fare well, Mr. Potts." I replied, rather hastily, wishing him off, before he thought of another ‘rarity’ to sell to Sam.

"So long, Sirs!" He said with a cheery wave as he turned his cart around and, thankfully, drove out of sight.

*****

Later that same evening, Sam and I paid a visit to the Green Dragon. I couldn’t help but notice that he had a small bundle tucked under his arm that upon a second glance revealed a now all too familiar, wooden box, embellished with the mysterious symbols of Far Harad.....

The tavern was crowded, as usual, and even though a haze of sweet-smelling smoke from several varieties of pipeweed permeated the common room, it was still easy enough to ascertain the identities of a few of the patrons right away from the sound of their voices; the loudest, of course, being that of the miller’s son, Ted Sandyman. He was in the midst of a conversation with Porto Goodbody and Folco Boffin.

"I say never trust a hobbit who isn’t wary of the Outside." He was saying.

"What’s that again?" Sam asked as we joined them.

Porto spoke up. "We were talkin’ about that peddler that’s been goin’ about... what’s his name?"

"Olo Potts." I answered, and Folco regarded me with one slightly raised eyebrow.

"That’s the name!" Porto exclaimed. "He claims to have traveled to Bree and beyond. Says that a lot of the things he has for sale even come from as far away as the Misty Mountains."

Ted snorted in derision and took a swig of his ale.

"I hear tell that most of the goods he was trying to unload looked as if they had seen better days." Folco declared as he prepared to light his pipe. "At any rate, I don’t think I’d care to purchase anything from him. Would you Frodo?"

I hesitated an instant before replying, "I suppose that would depend on if any of the items he was peddling happened to be something I might find useful... or appealing."

Ted responded with a short laugh. "I can’t imagine anything comin’ out o’ that cart o’ his that would fill either of those requirements!"

I noticed that during this entire discussion, Sam hadn’t said a word. Indeed, the more the other three said about Mr. Potts and his wares, the lower Sam seemed to scrunch in his seat. I also noticed that the little box was now completely out of sight--within the confines of his jacket, I suspected.

Just then, we were joined by Tolman Cotton and a few of his companions. Tolman seemed rather excited about something. As it turned out, he had also had an encounter with Mr. Potts. It was beginning to appear that if the peddler wasn’t exactly as well-traveled as he claimed, at the very least he certainly got around.

"That Potts fellow came by our place early this morning," said Tolman, "and talked Mum into buying some sort of tonic. ‘E promised it would ease ‘er aches and pains and make ‘er feel young again. It set me to thinkin’ that if it could give older folks extra get up and go, it might work even better for younger folk. I figured I could use some extra energy to ‘elp me get my chores done quicker."

"Don’t tell me you bought some of that horrible smellin’ stuff?" Porto asked.

Tolman’s answer was to pull a bottle out of his coat pocket, a bottle with a familiar label that read, Dr. Otton’s Famous Feel Good Tonic, although this particular bottle was neither the same shape nor colour as the one that Potts had proffered to Sam and me.

"Are you daft?" Ted nearly crowed. "Leave it to you to buy something like that!"

"‘E ain’t the only one."

Every eye turned to Sam, who looked both angry and embarrassed at the same time. "But it don’t mean we’re daft."

"Sam, surely you didn’t?" Folco asked.

Sam nodded hesitantly, then fished the bottle of tonic that he had purchased earlier that day from his own jacket pocket. I was more than a little surprised. I was well aware he had brought along his prized Ka’mel, but I had no idea that he’d also been toting the rather questionable elixir.

He placed it on the table, as he explained somewhat sheepishly, "Oi bought some tonic so’s Oi could get this..." Whereupon he opened his coat and brought forth the wooden box. This, too, he sat on the table.

There was a moment of silence as everyone stared at the box with its curious symbols. I groaned inwardly, clinging to the slim hope that at least one or two of the others might find the contents of the box as fascinating as Sam had, thus sparing him any further embarrassment.

Slowly, Sam opened the box and my hopes were dashed as I heard first one snicker, then another, punctuated by Ted Sandyman’s ridiculing hoot, "What in the Shire is that?"

"A Ka’mel." Sam replied.

"A Ka’mel?" Tolman echoed.

"Never heard of such," Porto declared. "Looks sort of like a starving pony, and a deformed one at that!"

"No, it’s no pony...," Folco mused. "But I do believe it’s the ugliest goat I’ve ever seen."

Sam set his jaw and answered in a determined voice. "It’s a Ka’mel, from the Sunlands. A very rare-"

"And revered animal." Porto finished, as Ted practically howled with glee.

Within those few seconds Sam’s expression went from bafflement to anger."Now wait just a minute," he fumed, "This ‘ere Ka’mel was owned by a very wealthy queen. Why, look at the gold an’ jools on it!"

It was at that very moment that one of the alleged jewels, one of the ‘genuine’ rubies, to be exact, happened to fall off the Ka’mel statue. In a flash, Ted, grabbed it.

Just as quickly, Sam rose from his seat. " ‘Ere now! Give that back!"

Too late. Ted brought the ruby to his mouth and bit it. After which, he more than willingly obliged Sam’s request, spitting out the crushed jewel and flicking it back to him with a smug grin. "Looks to me like your precious jools are no more than coloured paste."

"No! That can’t be!"

"My friend, I fear you’ve been taken." Folco said, slapping Sam on the back as he went on to explain that from the reports he had heard, Mr. Potts possessed a great many ‘valuable’ carvings of rare animals, thus confirming my earlier fears that Sam’s Ka’mel was not an original or unique work of art.

Then Porto spoke up. "If the carving is a fake, I wonder what’s in the tonic."

"I’d be afraid to find out." Folco added.

"Probably nothin’ more than sugar water..." Sam ventured, his tone bitter.

"Well....why don’t you try it and tell us?" Suggested Ted as he looked from Sam to Tolman. "Or are you fellas afraid?"

"I ain’t afraid of a little sugar water!" Tolman retorted.

"Me neither!" Sam was quick to add.

"Well, go on then, both of you!" Ted prompted. "You could take a swig at the same time. Then tell us if it makes you feel good...."

I felt it was about time to interrupt Ted’s goading. "I don’t think that’s wise... you don’t know that it’s sugar water...."

Ted wasn’t about to let me spoil his fun. "Bugger off, Frodo," he snapped.

Sam and Tolman exchanged hesitant looks. "Might as well find out together." Tolman said as he reached for his bottle. Sam followed suit, picking up his own bottle. There was the sound of two corks being popped, followed by several comments of, "Phew!" as the fumes from the bottles offended nearby noses.

Then, a voice followed by another, and another, began to chant. "Drink it up! Drink it up!"

Just as they began to tip the bottles to their mouths, two big burly hands grabbed their arms.

"STOP! Don't drink it!"

*****

All eyes turned to the voice and owner of the burly hands. It was none other than Tobold Took. Toby, as he's most often called, was another traveling sales hobbit, so to speak, but of a much different ilk than Olo Potts. He had the reputation of being an honest person with which to do business. First of all, he didn’t travel about the countryside in a rattletrap cart, going from door to door. And secondly, as far as I knew Toby dealt exclusively in Dr. Otton’s goods. And, although Toby is a very jovial person, capable of bantering and jesting with the best of them, at this particular moment the look upon his face told that he meant business.

"Don't drink it!" he commanded again.

"Why not?" Tolman asked, astonished. "We was just goin' to take a sip. Not the whole bottle."

"One sip or the whole bottle doesn't matter," Toby said as he whisked the bottles out of both of their of hands. "You'd both be either very ill or... possibly worse no matter how much you drank."

The room went quiet and in an instant, everyone in the Green Dragon congregated around our table.

"What's wrong wi' it?" someone asked, backing away.

Toby whisked Ted Sandyman’s mug of ale out of his hand.

"Here now!" Ted protested in a miffed voice.

Toby ignored him and downed the remainder of Ted’s ale in one swallow, after which, he slapped the mug down on the table with a loud thump. Without a word of explanation he poured a little of the elixir into the empty mug.

The concoction fizzed and foamed with a hiss and a bit of a mist seemed to form over the top of the mug, spilling over the rim. Then, pulling out his handkerchief, he dipped a corner of it into the brew. Carefully, Toby lifted the hanky up and spread it open for all to see.

The corner of the hanky was rapidly falling apart right in front of our eyes.

Sam gasped, and Tolman's face went white as he sat down quickly. "We almost drank that stuff!" he whispered hoarsely, then grew silent.

As a matter of fact, there was a sudden hush over the entire room. It couldn’t have been any more quiet in that room than if it had been an hour after closing time. As if in unison, every hobbit present pulled out a bottle or two from their coat and trouser pockets and began to pile the bottles on the table.

As I watched, I noticed that not even the labels matched-much less the bottles. I looked at Toby. "What is going on, Toby?"

"We were getting huge amounts of letters from hobbits demanding their money back for having bought our Famous Feel Good Tonic," he began to explain. "But the problem was, the area where the complaints were coming from was an area that I hadn't ever been to yet."

"Oi don' understand," Sam said. "You go everywhere selling stuff, don't ya?"

Toby nodded. "I do, but I don't generally sell my goods directly to the customer. I usually set up a deal with grocers and innkeepers an’ the like to sell Doctor Otton goods to their customers.

When hobbits started complaining about having bought some elixir from a peddler, my employer and I realized there was someone out there selling fake Doctor Otton's tonics! I've been following the route that hobbits said the peddler traveled in hopes of stopping him before someone else gets hurt or worse, killed."

That started a heated argument began over Olo’s fate once he was caught. A few folks felt that tarring and feathering might be suitable punishment, and others were of the opinion that tossing him in the lockholes in Michel Delving for awhile might be even better. Still, a few more felt that a combination of both would see justice served.

Toby waved his arms to get everyone's full attention. "What I need to know, now, is where he is so I can stop him!"

Everyone started talking at once. "I jus' saw 'im yesterday over by the Mill!"

"Oi saw 'im this 'ere mornin' comin' up th' lane to Overhill!"

"We'll help you catch him!" someone yelled, and the crowd echoed the sentiment.

"NO!" Toby was adament. "If he gets wind of a mob of folks after him, he'll know something is wrong. He’ll run for sure. But, if I go by myself, I have a much better chance of keeping him from going any further than he already has."

There was some grumbling among the crowd. They wanted justice and they wanted it now. The complaining grew louder. I feared there would be trouble so, without a moment’s hesitation, I climbed up on my chair to get everyone's attention.

"I'll buy a round for everyone here if each of you will cooperate and tell Toby when and where you last saw Mister Potts."

Quicker than you could say 'Long live the Shire,' everyone was clamoring to spill any information on the whereabouts of Olo Potts to Toby, who, after being supplied with a quill, ink and some parchment, sat down and began jotting down notes for later reference.

The last ones to talk to Toby were Sam and myself.

"Really," I said, "It was early this morning when Olo showed up at Bag End. I'm sure he has sold to other hobbits in Hobbiton since then."

"I have a fair idea of which way he's headed and just what it is besides the tonic he's trying to pass off as Doctor Otton goods."

Sam's eyebrows went up. "You mean 'e's tryin' t' sell other stuff, too?"

"Flour, cookies, ginger beer, you name it."

Sam snorted. "Doctor Otton sells that kinda stuff? Oi only thought 'e 'ad th' tonic." Then he shook his head in disbelief. "If any o' that stuff on that wagon was made by Doctor Otton, Oi'm surprised you still 'ave a job wi' him!"

Toby had to laugh. "Yes, I've heard of some of the stuff Mister Potts has tried to sell. Old rugs, flimsy pots and pans, fake jewelry, and even carvings said to be from far-off lands."

"But," he continued. "What I’m most I'm concerned about are the things that he's claiming are Doctor Otton's. The tonic is just one item. He's selling flour with Doctor Otton's seal on the bag. Even jugs of beer and ale claiming them to be made by Doctor Otton! The problem is, the beer and ale are definitely very poor quality and may have things substituted or added to them --just like this so-called tonic-- He’s liable to end up poisoning someone! THAT's why I have to stop him."

"You don’t believe..." I asked, concerned for my fellow hobbits. "...that Mister Potts is actually out to harm someone...do you?"

"No, I don't. But I do believe he’s under the delusion that he has hit on a sure way to make a tidy profit." Toby replied.

*****

It was very early the next morning. On the side of the road stood Halfast Banks with his pony and belongings. Halfast, who fortunately happened to be visiting Bywater, was a chemist by trade and had come forward offering his services for that very reason. He was also aware of, and troubled about Olo Potts and his sham tonic.

Halfast had received a sample of the infamous elixir when a friend of his, thinking he had gotten a bargain, had instead, ended up quite ill from a bad batch of the stuff. The concerned chemist had studied the sample and sorted out the rather dubious ingredients in the concoction. After these discoveries, he was more than willing to help put Potts out of the business.

Now, Halfast stood looking over his pony as if there was something wrong with its leg. I sat hunkered down with Sam and Toby, along with Tolman Cotton and his son Tom, behind some bushes and trees along the Bywater Road. According to information received, Potts had done a booming business in the Hobbiton and Bywater vicinity and it was doubtful that he’s be ready to give up this successful route.

This was the most likely path along which to waylay the peddler. Despite the fact that our party was in hiding, this was not to be a lynching. Toby had only enlisted the extra aid in the unlikely case that Olo proved to be a something of a nimble escape artist. Judging from what I remembered about the appearance of his cart and pony, not to mention his considerable bulk, I rather doubted that. Still, so far, Mr. Pott had been seemingly successful in eluding local authorities wherever he went.

As if on cue, we soon heard the ‘clip-clop’ of a pony’s footfall, the creaking of wagon wheels, as well as tinkling sounds that told us Olo Potts was headed our way.

Sure enough, the peddler pulled into view, and stopped beside Halfast and the pony.

"Have you a problem, Sir?" he asked.

"Why, yes, we do," Halfast said, in a properly dismal manner. "My pony seems to have gone lame on me and I have no way of alleviating the poor animal’s pain and suffering. I had so hoped to be farther along on my journey home to Springdell!"

Mr. Potts looked rather interested at this bit of information and he clucked sympathetically as he regarded Halfast’s pony. But all he said was, "Well, I’m on my way to Bywater, perhaps I could offer you a lift, or send someone back to help?"

Beside me, Toby’s face took on a look of surprised disappointment. This wasn’t at all what we had expected.

Then we heard Halfast reply, "Oh, I couldn’t just leave my pony here!"

"I suppose not. No,that wouldn’t do...," Potts mused, and I thought I could detect just a hint of craftiness in his voice.

"And I hate to see him in pain for one more minute than is necessary." Halfast added.

Olo stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"Come on... Come on...,"I heard Sam on my other side, whisper, "Take the bait!"

The peddler’s eyes narrowed and he looked around as if checking for the whereabouts of other travelers. I thought for sure Sam’s whisper had given us away and all was for naught.

Just then, Halfast did something that turned Olo’s attention back to the situation at hand, he sneezed, not once but twice, for good measure.

A greedy light came into the Peddler’s eyes. He broke into a grin and started to climb down from his rickety wagon.

"Sounds as if you may be takin’ a cold." Potts said rather hopefully.

"Yes, I fear you may be right."Halfast answered.

"You know," he said, "I may have something in my cart here that might just help you after all... you and your pony. I have a tonic that can cure aches and pains and stop a cold in its tracks!"

"Is that so?" Halfast feigned interest.

Potts nodded and so it began. We watched as Halfast asked questions now and then of Olo, keeping the peddler busy as things were pulled one by one out of his wagon. From my earlier experience, I knew it might take a while before Olo actually finalized a transaction. After all, he wasn’t an idiot. I could tell that Olo was ‘feeling it out’ a bit before he would actually try to make a sale—hopefully, for more than just a measly bottle of tonic.

"We oughta rush ‘im now," Tolman grumped impatiently in my ear. "We know what ‘e’s about ter do!"

"Patience." Toby whispered. "It’s only a matter of moments, now."

Sure enough, Halfast, upon having paid for the tonic, removed his hat and wiped his brow.

That was our signal! We jumped up and ran toward a very surprised Olo Potts, who after his initial shock sprinted towards his wagon with astonishing fleetness. I caught up with him and managed to lay hold of one of his arms, but he turned round and gave me a swift kick in the shin. The force of that blow caused me regretfully to let go, but Tom dashed round to the front of the cart and grabbed hold of the pony’s bridle, while Sam managed to latch onto Olo’s coattails just as he started to launch himself into the seat of his cart.

Toby strode over to Halfast who, in turn, revealed not only a bottle of Dr. Otton’s ‘Feel Good Tonic,’ but also a not-so-small container of Dr. Otton’s ‘Rheumatism and Body Ache Remedy,’ and a case of Dr. Otton’s ‘Little Imps Ginger Beer’ and Dr. Otton’s Ginger Tea Biscuits.’

I limped over to the cart and when next I looked at Olo, Sam and Tolman had the peddler between them, each holding on to an ample arm.

"Now what would you want with a simple peddler?" Olo whined, as if we were thieves bent on robbing him. "I’ve got nothing that’s worth stealing!"

"You got that right," Sam said aloud and Tom snickered.

Olo was perplexed, and more than a little nervous as he watched Toby and Halfast begin digging through his wagon. "If it’s money you want, I’ll give it to you gladly. Please, don’t harm a poor peddler!"

Toby came walking back from the rear of the wagon and motioned for Sam and Tolman to release their charge. They did so, albeit, hesitantly. However, Potts didn’t get another chance to run, for Toby took him by the collar of his coat and promptly escorted him to a pile of goods laid out upon the ground. All were marked, ‘Dr. Otton’s.’

"Where did you get these things?" he asked.

Olo, thinking he could get out of this easily, spoke up readily. "I traded for them from Dr. Otton, himself!"

Toby’s eyebrow went up. "You did, did you?"

"Why sure, I did. I’m a very close friend with him! Practically a partner! Here! Let me prove it to you!"

He shrugged free of Toby’s grasp, brushed off his jacket somewhat insolently, and under the watchful eyes surrounding him, scurried to the wagon, climbed aboard and began to dig under the seat. "I know it’s here somewhere. Ah! Here it is!"

He fished out a small wooden box. Jumping down from the wagon, he handed it to Toby. "What’s in here…," he tapped a dirty finger on the lid. "…will prove what I said!"

Toby gave Olo a dubious look as he opened the box. Inside was an obviously very worn bit of paper that looked to have been folded and refolded many, many times. Toby took it out and carefully opened the parchment. After looking it over, he frowned and handed it to me.

I took a look at it and tried not to laugh. It was a document, to be sure, but a poorly executed one with numerous misspelled words:
‘I hearebye deeklare that Myster Olo Potts is a partneer of mine and shood be given awl doo rispeckt.
Sinsearly,
Doctor Otton, Esquire
Sarford’

It was dated 1379 SR

I gave it back to Toby, who then waved it under Olo’s nose. "I’ll have you know," he said with a growl, "that there is no such person named Dr. Otton. It’s the name my employers use to put on the things they sell from out of Little Delving!"

"Yes there is so a Dr. Otton-" Olo began to protest. Then, just as quickly he shut up as he realized what Toby had just said. "Y-your employers?" he squeaked. "Li-Little Delving?"

He sank to his knees, and pleaded, "Please don’t hurt me, Sir! I didn’t know! I swear to you I didn’t know!"

A very lengthy lecture began, of which I will not tell here. Suffice it to say that Halfast lectured him on just what it was in the tonic he was selling, and how dangerous it was to those that partook of it.

Toby, in turn, lectured him on selling fake goods marked with Dr. Otton’s label. By the time they were through, I was convinced they had not only scared Olo into being an honest Hobbit, but also those who were with us, as well.

Tom brought forth a rope in order to tie Olo’s hands to see to it that he be bound over to the local shirriff. But to all of our surprise, Sam stopped them.

"Ain’t no need ter go tyin’ Mister Potts ‘ands an’ such," he said. "Oi think we can trust ‘im to stop ‘is peddlin’."

Olo nodded vigorously. "I swear I won’t peddle anymore!"

"Now, see here, Samwise Gamgee," Toby began to sputter. "I didn’t come all this way just to set Potts free!"

Sam just looked at him. "Didn’t you tell Miss Mundee on your last trip to Hobbiton that you needed to find some other enterprising hobbits to help you on your routes?"

Toby stood there, mouth open, looking from Sam to me to Olo. A great struggle was going on inside his head. "Well, yes… I did…. But…"

"Well, you can’t say Mister Olo doesn’t have the knack to sell stuff to folks… Can you?"

"Well, yes, I mean, no…"

Toby was silent for a moment or two as he thought over what Sam was hinting at. When he did speak, it was to Olo, himself.

"Sam is right on two things. One, my route has become too large for just one Hobbit to handle in a timely fashion. And, two, I have to admit you do have the abilities I am looking for in a saleshobbit. Of course, there is the damage done to your reputation from peddling sham products... but that may be overcome with time and proper training.... So, I can’t promise you anything, but my employers are good and generous folk and if you would be willing to join me in my trip back to Little Delving, and if you are willing to help make remuneration for the fake goods you’ve sold under the Dr.Otton’s label..."

"Remooner-what?" Olo asked.

"If you are willing to work out some sort of agreement to pay Dr. Otton’s back for using the name, then perhaps–-just perhaps--you won’t have to face the local magistrate and they may even allow you to work for them selling the real Doctor Otton’s. What do you say?"

Olo was taken by surprise. "Me? Go with you?"

"It’s that or be escorted out of the Shire for good by my friends," Toby pointed out.

Olo didn’t take much time to think it over.

Toby stuck out his hand. "Deal?"

"Deal!"

*****

Later that day, Sam and I saw Toby and Olo off. Olo’s pony and rattletrap cart was tethered behind Toby’s own cart. They hadn’t even climbed aboard before Olo was already trying to convince Toby that he’d made a very wise decision in taking Olo on as a ‘partner.’

Hopefully, for Toby’s sake, he can convince Olo not to talk quite so much on the long trip to Little Delving.

I took a step back, put down the pruning shears and gave my aching arms a rest. At the same time, I took the opportunity to scrutinise my handiwork. From the look of things, I hadn’t made much of a mark on the girth of the wisteria. A very healthy specimen it was. The huge vine’s many shoots waved at me in the breeze, like mocking tentacles. Wiping the sweat from my brow unsuccessfully with the back of my hand, I picked up the shears again and made another attempt to reduce the bulk of the plant. It’s sprawling tendrils seemed to twist and wind everywhere. Sam had even remarked on the plant’s ambitiousness. "Mr. Frodo," he’d remarked one day after tangling with the plant, "Oi believe Oi could prune that there plant every single day and you’d almost never know it. You can almost see it growing in front o’ yer very eyes!"

I was inclined to agree. The massive vine seemed intent on taking over my property, and on my last few trips into the garden I could almost have sworn that the wisteria had deliberately assailed me. So after tripping over a mass of thick low growing tendrils that snaked across the path, I decided on impulse that the plant needed to be tamed, and tamed at that very moment. I’m not usually given to whims, but we Bagginses can be a tenacious lot, ourselves, when we get an idea in our heads.

As it happened, it was Sam’s day off. Not to worry, I told myself, I figured I was perfectly capable of handling the pruning job on my own. I might have accomplished the task a little easier if I could have laid hold of a larger pair of pruning shears. After rummaging in vain through the garden shed, all I could find was a small pair. I had no idea where Sam might have stored the others. No matter, I assumed the smaller pair would suffice adequately. All the better to grab onto the vine with one hand and snip with the other.

Now, I know that plants cannot think, plot or scheme, nor are they capable of foresight or for that matter, revenge. But this one would almost make one suspect otherwise. For even as I clipped and snipped away in a frenzy, I had to fight off an occasional vine that latched on to me, snagging itself in my hair or wrapping around my neck. But I was determined to reduce the offending vegetation to a manageable size. I grew ever more determined with each snip of the shears, clipping off any waving tendril that I could manage to catch hold of.

I had done a fair job with the growth that was within arm’s reach, but the wisteria had also sent its vines twining up other plants like a stealthy serpent. It had made a good start at insinuating its way up nearby lilac. I made a grab for one of the tendrils that waved at me in a cheeky fashion from one of the lilac’s branches. The breeze picked up and whisked the vine out of my reach. I stretched on tiptoe and made another grab and just caught the end of the vine with my fingertips. It promptly snapped off, leaving the rest of the vine free to waggle in the breeze. Gritting my teeth, I stood on tiptoe again, stretched out both arms, still grasping the pruning shears in one hand and caught hold of the waving shoot, whereupon I lost my grip on the shears and plummeted, sharp end down, towards the ground. The big toe of my left foot intercepted them before they hit the ground, whereupon they bounced off my toe, after inflicting a severe, stabbing pain, (and when I say stabbing, I mean that in every literal sense of the word), then skittered across the gravel path. Straightaway, blood welled up out of the wound and covered my big toe and a few of its neighbours.

Despite being in agony, once the initial shock was over, I started to hobble back to my hole, leaving a trail of blood in my wake. I remember wondering at one point, how so much blood could come out of a toe, and a fearful thought crossed my mind; suppose it wasn’t coming from just one appendage. (I certainly couldn’t tell from the pain, the entire lower portion of my foot was feeling the hurt, and I couldn’t access the severity of the wound for all the blood.) Suppose I was even missing a toe or two! After all, I hadn’t exactly stopped to count. Visions of Sam scouring the garden paths for my missing toes filled my mind.

By the time I made it inside, the pain was if anything worse. My foot had now begun to throb. I grabbed the first article of cloth that I could lay my hands on, which happened to be a handkerchief snatched from the pocket of a jacket left lying over a chair. And, thank goodness for that chair, I thought to myself as I collapsed in it and resting my injured foot on my knee, I wrapped the linen around it in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood. As I did so, I could at least feel that all of my toes seemed to be present and accounted for. Merely touching my big toe was almost enough to send me into a paroxysm of pain.

I was just about to peek, carefully, under the bloody handkerchief when the door bell jangled. I started, letting the cloth and my hand accidentally drop back onto my toe. This elicited a sharp intake of breath on my part and did nothing to put me in a better temper. There was no question of my getting up to answer the door. I was quite honestly tempted to just ignore the bell. But I didn’t, instead, I called out in a loud voice, "Come in!"

There was a moment’s hesitation and then the door was pushed slowly inwards. If I hadn’t been in so much pain, I might have jumped up and given my guest a hearty welcome, for the visitor was someone I hadn’t seen in some time, Farmer Maggot’s son, Orgulas.

Orgie, as he is most often known as, had just opened his mouth in greeting when his eyes fell upon my foot with its blood soaked cloth.

"Frodo! What in the Shire happened?"

I gave him a brief account of the accident, with a growing feeling of ineptitude. I couldn’t help but think that something like this would never have happened to Sam.

"Looks as if you’ve certainly done yourself up well, my friend!" Orgie declared.

I managed to summon up a sickly grin on his behalf, but his pronouncement didn’t do anything to make me feel less the incompetent clod.

"It appears as if my visit was timed just right. And, since I’m here, and have a little knowledge of the healing arts, I might as well make myself useful." Said Orgie, removing his jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeves. "I’ll need some hot water and clean cloth. Don’t you get up! Just tell me where I can find the linens."

"Oh, don’t worry! I have no intention of moving unless it’s absolutely necessary!" I joked.

Orgie grinned. "Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour."

"I’m just glad I haven’t lost my toe!"

"Not yet, unless I find it necessary to remove it..."

My forced smile faded.

"Just kidding! My turn to joke, Frodo." He laughed. "Don’t mind me. Now point me in the direction of the linen closet."

Orgie disappeared to retrieve the bandages and hot water and I rested my head against the back of the chair while I waited, trying to ignore the throbbing in my foot. He returned in fairly short order and removed the bloody rag from my toe.

"You know, Frodo, from the looks of all this blood, I may have to stitch up your toe. But, I’ll be able to tell more, once I get it cleaned up." He said as he set to work wiping away the blood.

Some of the blood had already dried, but a tiny well spring of it still oozed out of the gash every time Orgie tried to wipe it away. He gave a low whistle.

"What?" I questioned. "That bad?"

"Well, stitching won’t do any good." He replied.

For a brief instant I feared he might say something about having to remove the toe again, and this time mean it!

"Seems the shears split your toe right through the toenail." He continued. "There’s no way I can stitch that up. All I can do is clean it up, and put a dressing on it. Do you happen to have any ointment? "

I groaned as my fingers dug into the chair cushion. "I think there is a jar of ointment in the first kitchen cupboard. Sam left it here, but I’m not sure if it’s still good, though. I’ve had it for some time."

"Well, we shall see..."He took another piece of linen and had me hold it firmly around the toe while he went to fetch the medication.

He returned with a small blue jar topped with a lid that seemed to be giving him a bit of trouble. Grimacing, he twisted the top determinedly and it gave way, releasing noxious fumes into the air. Orgie made another face, but much to my surprise declared the ointment quite fit for use.

"How can you tell?" I inquired.

He chuckled and replied, "Because I happen to recognise the smell of one of the ingredients and I can tell you quite confidently that the plant that went into the making of this stuff doesn’t smell any better when its green and growing. Now...let’s see your foot again..." He said as he pulled a small stool over to where I sat and settled himself on it.

I was more than happy to relinquish my toe to his care, for at this moment it still almost all I could do to keep from curling up into a ball and crying like a babe. However, the moment he leaned over and wiped the still oozing blood from my toe, excruciating pain shot up my foot and leg. Without a thought I lashed out with my free foot, which connected with his chin and sent the stool toppling and Orgie sprawling on the floor.

"Steady on, Frodo!" he said, as he sat up and rubbed his jaw.

"Sorry, Orgie," I said through gritted teeth. "I'll try my best not to attack you again."

With that said, Orgie started to clean my toe again, this time a bit more gently. He applied the ointment with a wary expression, as if he was on his guard for flying appendages. Nevertheless, I was still grateful that he made a swift job of it. He suggested that since he was only here for a day or so to visit with his betrothed, I have my cousin Mundee, who had some skill with healing, change the bandage and check for infection.

"NO!" I shouted, perhaps a bit louder than necessary judging from the look he gave me. "Really," I said, trying to make light of the situation. "I would prefer that you not inform Mundee of my... um...unfortunate mishap."

"Why ever not?" He was truly nonplussed.

I hesitated, then admitted, "Because, if Mundee tends to my wound, then It’s only a matter of time before Bennie gets wind of it, as well....and...you see... well, truth is...I’m afraid trouble would only come of it! Besides, they might kill me with kindness! Anyway...I really don’t relish the thought of word spreading round town about my ineptitude with gardening tools."

Orgie regarded me with an amused expression, but stated in all seriousness, "You really need to have a healer look at it," then he added with a smile, "but knowing your cousins, you might be better off if I just removed your toe right now with a dull knife."

"If Bennie and Mundee find out that I’m incapacitated, you might as well remove my head while you're at it, Orgie," I jested back.

Before taking his leave, Orgie gave me his sworn promise not to make mention my accident. "Although, I don’t know how you intend to go about hiding it." He said. "You’d better lay low for a while. Have Sam put out the word that you’ve gone on holiday and send him for any supplies that you might need."

I thanked him for his untimely aid and offered him tea, adding regretfully that I couldn’t wait on him properly, as a host should a guest. He waved me off politely and made sure that I promised to change the bandages and keep a close eye out for any sign of swelling of redness that might entail infection.

So, here I sit, my journal in my lap, and my foot propped upon my desk, swathed in layers of thick bandages. And even though I felt a bit silly, I’m thankful that Orgie happened to show up when he did. I’m also thankful that Sam should be back tomorrow and he can have at the wisteria without my aid!

Normally, it's Autumn when I get the itch to take extra-long walks in the Shire. However, I awoke several mornings ago feeling the need for a nice long trek. Sometimes, on such hikes I merely wander with no preordained destination in mind. But on this particular occasion, I thought I might enjoy a visit to Michel Delving, as long as I steered clear of the Mathom-house. After the fiasco that took place there with Merry and Pippin on my last visit, I wasn’t too sure I’d be welcome there.

I usually enjoy solitary walks, but this time I was felt inclined for some company. Neither Pippin nor Merry happened to be at hand, this time. (Probably for the best.) Folco Boffin, however, was and I enlisted him to join me on my trek. Fatty Bolger had declined, saying the only way he would travel that far would be by wagon. Sam had turned down my invitation as well, stating with a regretful expression, that the gardens at both Bag End and at home were in need of watering and weeding, and the “taters” especially needed to be watched carefully for signs of bugs. So it was that Folco and I were left to each other’s company. The journey was pleasant enough. The weather was fine for walking, not too hot during the day with a bright, starry sky providing the perfect canopy for camping underneath.

We managed to arrive in Michel Delving just in time for dinner, so we made haste to the Rose & Thorn Inn, where I stayed during my last visit. It is well known that the head cook there, one Mrs. Dimple Puddlejumper, makes the best meat pies and dumplings in the entire West Farthing. I had my heart, and stomach set on one of those tasty treats. After securing a room for the night, we tidied up a bit so as to sample Mrs. Puddlejumper's fare as quickly as possible. We came into the common room just in time to hear a familiar voice wafting over the crowd.

"Father, tell me again why I have to join you and the solicitors?"

Folco and I looked at each other in surprise. Pippin! Not just Pippin, mind you, but his father, Paladin Took, as well.

"You are here to learn how the solicitors tend to our land holdings." Paladin was saying in a voice tinged with a hint of impatience. "We went over all of this on our journey here. After all, should anything happen to me, you will be next in line to become Thain. It's time you began to learn what it is I do, as ‘Thain in waiting’."

"Thain in waiting," Pippin sighed. "Why do I have to learn this stuff if you haven't even become Thain yet? Grandfather Ferimbras will be Thain for a long time, yet!"

Paladin frowned. "Peregrin Took, there will be no more discussion tonight. I expect you to refrain from endless questions and listen for a change." Pippin sighed and nodded. It was obvious his heart wasn't into learning to be a Thain... at least, not the business part of Thainship.
I motioned for Folco to find us a table while I went over and invited Paladin and Peregrin to join us.

"Good evening, Paladin," I said, clasping his shoulder as I came up to the two. "Fancy meeting you in Michel Delving!"
Pippin's eyes grew large. "Frodo! What are you doing here? Are you on business, too?"

"Not really," I said with a smile. "For some reason I felt the urge to get out and do some walking. Folco's here, too, by the way." I pointed to where Folco had found a table and was waving for us to join him. "I was wondering, could we pry you away from business and have you join us for Dinner?"

Paladin smiled warmly. "Why certainly, my lad!”

We sat and enjoyed a rather lovely meal of meat and mushroom pies and cooked carrots and parsnips, potatoes with gravy and more than a few rounds of the Inn's best ale. With our bellies full, we took out our pipes and settled back to discuss the latest news among families. Which prompted Paladin to comment on the reason for his and Pip’s visit. Michel Delving was where the offices of the Took family solicitors were and it was high time that Peregrin learn a few things about the business and responsibility of what it took to be master of such vast property holdings as the Tooks possessed. "After all," Paladin said. "There is more to being Thain than being first in line for meals and feasts!"

It was apparent that the main thing on Pippin’s mind was to get as far away as possible from boring business as possible. If anything, he was more interested in a group of hobbits sitting by the fireplace, telling tales and such to whomever would listen. His attention drifted between his father’s well meaning advice and the laughter that came from the revelers.

“You two like a good story, don’t you, Frodo, Folco?” Pip suggested, casting a hopeful glance our way. "Ummm...Father, why don’t we go and have a listen?” he suggested.

Paladin shook his head but let Pippin go. Without waiting to see if Folco and I were going to join him, Pippin fairly leapt up from the table, so eager was he to get away from any further discussion of boring business. Paladin watched Pippin scurry away before he spoke to me.

"I fear that Peregrin will never be much of a Thain when he gets older. He spends far too much time being his Mother's pet, and getting into trouble these days."

"Ah, I wouldn't worry too much, Paladin," Folco said. "Pippin has a lot of growing up yet to do and his coming of age isn't for some time to come."

Paladin nodded and we spoke of other things for the time being.

That's when we were interrupted by another voice. "Well, well, well!"

We turned to see the cheery face of Mayor Will Whitfoot smiling at us. "I knew that you would be in town, Paladin," he said. "But I would have never thought I would see Frodo Baggins or Folco Boffin in town at the very same time. Welcome to Michel Delving!"

We invited him to join us for a drink, which he gladly accepted. “I was just starting home for the night. Myself and my wife and darling daughter are headed to Sackville tomorrow for the opening of a new inn. And as Mayor, I am to officiate." "Ah, well...I do hope you and your family have a pleasant journey." Paladin said. "Tis a pity that you are leaving tomorrow, though. I had hoped to speak to you about that problem you were telling me about the last time I was here."

Folco and I exchanged curious glances.

"Oh, that!" the Mayor replied. "It has been taken care of. In fact, we have people there right now about to do an inspection."

Now my curiosity was truly piqued and I had to ask, "Inspection? Of what?"

The Mayor and Paladin then told us of how cracks had been found developing in the roof of the Town Hole. The Hole had occupied its place of prominence for many a year without so much as a sign of anything amiss, and it was only after an inordinate amount of rainfall this past spring that the first crack had blatantly appeared, soon followed by others. There had been some leaking, but it had been an immeasurably small amount, fortunately. Upon learning of this news, Paladin, had offered to send the best carpenters and smial builders to work on shoring up the roof and doing any necessary repairs. But the Mayor in turn assured him that the local builders had agreed to do some patch work. In fact, they had been working there this very day, and were pleased to report that there seemed to be no major problems. Therefore, Mayor Whitfoot was going to attend the party as was only right, being the Mayor of the Shire.

"Can't let a party go by without the good Mayor present!" he said as he patted his ample belly.

The evening was getting on and the Mayor excused himself in order to stop by the Town Hole for a final inspection of his own before he settled in for the night. As he hefted himself to his feet, he asked if we would like to join him. We accepted his offer, knowing full well that he would be telling us stories of some of the officiating he had done at various sites around the Shire. Paladin had to drag Pippin away from his spot by the storyteller. He wasn't about to leave Pippin on his own for very long, especially after the Mayor commented on Pippin’s last visit to Michel Delving. I felt my face grow hot with embarrassment. I hadn’t realized that talk of our escapade in the Mathom-house had gotten back to Mayor Whitfoot himself. With cheeks blushing scarlet, I set off along with Folco, Paladin, Pippin and the Mayor to see the progress being made on the roof of the Town Hole.
We had no sooner arrived when a hobbit, whom I learned later was the Mayor’s assistant, came scurrying out the door, looking about frantically as if not sure what to do next, or who to look for.

"Ho there, Tom!" the Mayor called. "You look a tad upset. What is the matter?"

"Ah, Mayor Whitfoot!" the excited hobbit said. "Just the hobbit I was looking for! I fear the problem is worse than first thought, Sir."

Now, Mayor Whitfoot became the one that looked confused. “But when I spoke to the repair crew earlier today, they assured me that everything was under control, that there was nothing to worry about.”
Tom’s nervous demeanor remained unchanged as he shook his head. “Well Sir, they have found out differently. They’ve come to the conclusion that part of the Town Hole, especially the part containing your office is too dangerous for you to use. It appears that it’s ....well....it’s on the verge of collapsing! The Town Hole being built into the chalky hills of the White Downs and all-"

“Nonsense!” Will scoffed in mild annoyance. “You don’t need to give me a geography lesson! I’m quite aware of topography of this area! The Town Hole has stood for years without threat of collapse and it will stand a good many more!” With that pronouncement, the good Mayor proceeded to head for the front door.

“Sir...” Tom began, his brow wrinkled with concern, “It may not be wise to ...” But the Mayor’s bulk had already disappeared inside.

“Oh dear.” said Tom, as he fished his handkerchief from his waistcoat and mopped his forehead.

With a determined look on his face, Paladin started after the Mayor. “Stay here.” He ordered.

I’m not sure the directive was aimed at exclusively at Pippin or if Tom and I were included in that command. No matter, for Pippin wasted no time in following after his father.

“Pippin, wait!” I called, to no avail.

“Oh dear.” I heard Tom say again as I, in turn, followed after Pip with Tom puffing and mopping excitedly along behind.

We followed the sound of voices and caught up with Pippin in the Mayor’s office. Whereupon Paladin bestowed a frown upon his son, and me, before turning his attention back to a small crack in the office ceiling.

“You mean to tell me that this little crack is causing all the fuss?” Will asked Tom incredulously.

If anyone had asked my opinion, which they didn’t, fortunately, I would have been inclined to agree with the Mayor. The crack didn't seem to be that bad. It was neither very wide nor very long.
"Sir, that crack is just the beginning. If you’ll recall, this particular crack wasn’t even here when you left for the day. It appeared after the workers repaired the other one.” Tom gestured to a patched spot on the ceiling about two feet away from the latest fissure.

Will looked at Tom, then at Paladin, then back up at the small crack. Then he shook his head in disbelief. "I still can’t believe something so tiny ...Pshaw!” he scoffed again. “There is no possible way the roof is about to collapse. Why, the worse cracks were three rooms over from here!"

"I know that, Sir," Tom was as apologetic as he could be, but the urgency was still in his voice. "But I really think we should vacate the premises and stay out until the workers give the ‘all clear’! "

"Nonsense!" Will said again, taking a tone with Tom similar to one used when speaking to a child. "Why, I can prove to you that this ceiling is fine. Here!" he lifted up his walking stick over his head and began to jab at the crack. "See? Not a thing wrong with it!" the Mayor announced with a self-satisfied smile, which faded quickly at the sound that followed his final triumphant thrust. The sound was tiny at first, like someone snapping a dry twig. Then it became reminiscent to small pebbles slowly being loosed one by one, then gradually picking up speed.

Tom shrieked and fled the room. Mayor Whitfoot was still staring at the ceiling in astonishment, as bit by bit, plaster began raining down at an alarming rate, to the accompaniment of a noise that had now become a low rumble.

"Mayor," Paladin shouted, at the same time shoving Pippin and me from the room. "Get out of there! This instant!"

Pippin hesitated. “What about Father?”

“He’ll get out all right!” I replied, hoping my words proved true. “Come on!” I tugged at Pip’s sleeve, compelling him to move. Just before we turned to go, we caught a glimpse of Paladin as he made one last attempt to drag the still incredulous Mayor from the room. However, it is no easy task to prompt someone of Will Whitfoot’s considerable bulk and stubbornness to move quickly.

The rumbling crescendoed and this time there was no hesitation. We beat a speedy retreat down the hall and outside, clearing the hole just as there was an earsplitting crash behind us. We turned, relieved to see that Paladin was on our heels. But there was no sign of Mayor Whitfoot.

The Mayor’s assistant, Tom, however, was frantically wringing his hands and his handkerchief in turn. All the while, muttering, “Oh dear...oh dear....oh dear....”

Clouds of thick, white dust, billowed out of the door of the Town Hole, threatening to cover the gathering crowd of onlookers. Paladin took a step, intent on going back inside for his friend. I put a hand on his arm. “ Do you think it’s safe, yet?”

He started to answer but was interrupted by the sound of a hacking cough. The dust was already beginning to settle, and framed in what remained of the Town Hole doorway, stood an image in white chalk that could have passed for a statue of the Mayor, except this image was coughing and gagging....

"Will!" Paladin shouted, a mixture of relief and concern in his voice. "Are you all right?"

Mayor Whitfoot blinked and rubbed his eyes trying to focus on the direction of Paladin’s voice, as his eyes were so full of chalk dust that it was impossible for him to see clearly. It was a bit difficult to discern his answer to Paladin’s question for all the coughing and sputtering that accompanied it.

With the Town Hole in a shambles, every able-bodied hobbit was called upon to help dig through the rubble and find all known (and quite a few forgotten) documents, furniture and what not, including the Mayor's hat and his walking stick.

The Mayor spent his time, walking back and forth, shouting orders as well as asking if anyone had found his hat. At one point, Pippin looked up at the Mayor from where we were working together in the clean up. "When is Mayor Whitfoot going to get cleaned up?" he asked his father. "He looks like one of Pervinca’s flour dumplings!"

One of the other hobbits looked up. "Why he's right. Ol' Will does look like a dumpling!"

I fear as I finish this entry, my dear Cousin Pippin has helped to pin a new appellation on our beloved mayor. I can almost still hear some of the patrons in the common room of the Rose & Thorn, roaring with laughter over the Mayor's latest predicament and his new nickname, " Flour Dumpling."

I answered my door, earlier this evening to find a flustered looking Daffodil Underfoot standing on my doorstep. I must admit I was rather surprised, it was not often that this particular cousin came calling on me. In fact the last time she did had been to try and convince me to sit for a portrait. You see, my cousin happened to be an avid and talented artist. As it turned out, she also happened to be fairly talented in the art of persuasion, for although I had at first been reluctant to pose for her, I had at last relented and let her paint my portrait. Much to my pleasure it had turned out quite well. Daffodil had requested that I let her hang the portrait in her studio gallery for a time and I had agreed. She had informed me that I might have it back any time I wanted, but I couldn’t decide in what room in Bag End I wanted to hang it, and quite frankly, I wasn’t exactly comfortable with the thought of having such a large portrait of myself on display. It made me feel just a bit narcissistic. So, all this time it had remained in Daffodils care and eventually the portrait had slipped thankfully from my mind. That is, until my cousin turned up and rather breathlessly and embarrassedly announced that it had gone missing.

"What do you mean, ‘gone missing’?" I asked.

"Just what I said." Daffodil replied. "Chesman and I have looked all over the studio for it."

I was beginning to wonder with amusement , just how someone could lose something so large. "Well I shouldn’t worry too much, I’m sure it will turn up-"

"No, no! Frodo, you completely misunderstand." Daffodil interrupted. "We didn’t misplace it, it was taken!"

"You mean...stolen?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. The portrait has been hanging in the exact same spot all this time. The only time either my husband or myself has touched the portrait has been to dust it. It was there this morning, but right after lunch, I noticed it was gone. I asked Chesman if he might have moved it, and he said no. I know I didn’t move it. And nothing else was taken."

"But ...stolen..." Somehow I just found it hard to believe. Why anyone would want to steal a portrait of me was beyond my comprehension.

Daffodil sighed, "I"m afraid so...I’m so sorry, Frodo."

I nodded. "So am I. It worries me to think that thieves have been visiting your shop."

"Well, it’s not as if someone broke in, it had to have been one of the shop patrons."

"Did you have many people in, looking around today?" I questioned.

"A few." Daffodil chewed n her lower lip a minute, thinking. "But the people who came calling were not the sort who would take something without asking, without paying It had to have been someone who came in when I wasn’t aware. Although, how in the Shire they slipped out unseen carrying a large portrait, frame and all is beyond me!"

I, too, was at a loss as to how someone might accomplish such a feat. While certainly not impossible, it would have been difficult at best, especially under the watchful eyes and sharp ears of my cousin, Daffodil. All I could do was promise her that if I saw or heard of anything suspicious I would alert her right away. I offered her a cup of tea, which she politely decline, but promised to accept on some other, happier occasion.

I closed the door and retreated to the study still pondering the mystery of the missing portrait, but it wasn’t long before my mind turned to other matters. Sam had left some papers with me. He was still compiling notes for his garden compendium and he had eagerly adopted me as his editor in chief. I didn’t mind, I was rather enjoying the project and I also happened to be learning a little about gardening in the bargain. (Though, had I known earlier of his talent for writing poetry, I might have encouraged him to forget the gardening book and compile a collection of his poems, instead.)

I was just settling in for a quiet night of perusing notes, when I was interrupted by more company. This time in the form of my two younger cousins, Merry and Pippin. Their normal high-spirits, seemed if possible, more unbridled than ususal as they wheedled me into a visit to the Green Dragon. Giving in, I sighed and gathered Sam’s notes into a pile, they would still be waiting when I got home.

Along the way, I made the amazing discovery that Merry and Pippin also knew of the missing portrait.

"But, I thought you two only just got here. How did you know about it?" I asked.

"Oh...it’s the talk of the village. We heard about it practically the minute we set foot in town." Merry stated nonchalantly.

"That’s right." Pippin confirmed. "Ted Sandyman waved us down. He couldn’t wait to give us the news."

"That figures." I muttered.

Ted was also already present at the Green Dragon when we arrived. Which meant that most everyone there was aware of the theft, if they hadn’t hear already. You couldn’t really blame people for gossiping and speculating. Things like this hardly ever happened in Hobbiton, or anywhere in the Shire for that matter. Thievery was not commonplace. However, practical jokes were not unheard of and there was some speculation gong round the tavern that this might just be somebody’s idea of a joke.

"Or maybe...revenge..." Ted suggested.

"Revenge? For what?" Someone asked.

"Well...you know...Fastred Brandybuck weren’t none too happy about the result of the poetry contest..." Ted replied.

"True. But Frodo didn’t really have anything to do with that. Fastred did himself him by cheatin’. He shouldn’t hold that against Frodo."

"Just a thought." Ted said with a puff on his pipe.

I thought for a minute about what Sandyman was suggesting and a sudden image leapt to mind, of Fastred, surreptitiously making off with my portrait and gleefully defacing it. I shook my head to rid myself of the vision, then mentally chastised myself for giving credence to Ted’s theory.

It was at that moment, Fatty Bolger barreled into the tavern, and between gasps for breath, loudly announced, "Have you heard? They just found Frodo’s portrait! Hanging on the Widow Rumble’s porch!"

*******



Merry and Pippin had returned later that evening, full of chatter and speculation.

"By the way," I asked, "where did the two of you disappear to during all the excitement? I looked for you in the crowd, but I didn’t see either of you."

"Oh ...well...you know...it was a big crowd." Was their explanation.

By breakfast the next morning, my cousins had disappeared once again. I assumed that they had already eaten so I didn’t give that too much thought. Nor did I dwell much on the mysterious happenings of the night before, for my attention was taken by another, smaller mystery. While gathering my eating utensils, it came to me that my silverware seemed in short supply. I might not have noticed, except for the fact that I couldn’t find the spoon I preferred to use. Further investigation revealed that the matching knife was also missing. It wasn’t as if I couldn’t eat my porridge with another spoon, but the fact was, other utensils were missing, as well. It was quite perplexing. I remembered Bilbo’s conviction that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had acquired a good many of his silver spoons while he was away on his former journey. But as far as I knew Lobelia hadn’t had occasion to come near any of my spoons in quite some time. In the end, hunger made me abandon my search and I soon tucked the worry away to deal with at a later time and sat down to enjoy my breakfast before it got cold.

"Mr. Frodo."

I looked up from my porridge to see Sam standing there. The look on his face told me something was amiss.

"You need to come outside, sor. There’s somethin’ you should see."

I set aside my bowl, rose and followed him outside without a word, despite being more than a little curious as to my gardener’s rather cryptic behaviour. My curiosity grew as we approached the Party Tree.

"Sam, what is going-" before I even finished my thought, I saw it. A familiar face stared down at me from where it hung on a branch. The missing painting swayed almost imperceptibly as the branch creaked in the gentle breeze.

"What in the...How?" I stammered.

"Those were my thoughts exactly, Mr. Frodo."

As I stared in wonder at the portrait, I became aware of a clinking, clanking noise, along with an occasional, almost blinding light as something flashed under the portrait as it rocked in the breeze. I narrowed my eyes, trying to decipher what was attached to it.

"What’s causing that light and noise?"

"Oh that." Sam replied. " Oi couldn’t figure it out either, at first, but if ya move just a little to the side," at this, he caught hold of my shirt sleeve and pulled me a few feet to one side, "ya kin see it."

And, I could indeed. Someone had tied tableware to the painting’s frame. Silver spoons clinked merrily against each other along with a lone tin cup. Every now and then, the sunlight streaming through the branches would find the polished silver and set it ablaze, sending forth shafts of light as bright as the gleam of jewels. I marveled at the engineering of this feat. Someone, or more likely, more than one person, had taken a lot of trouble to remove the portrait from the Widow Rumble’s porch where they had stowed it, after first lifting it from Daffodil’s gallery. Then, they had gone to exceeding lengths to get the painting up into the branches of the Party Tree, which would have required a ladder or a skillful climber. ( It was this part, in particular, that made me doubt the ingenuity and agility of only one person.) After which, they had affixed the silverware, my silverware, more than likely. And how they had acquired those articles, left me baffled, and not a little uneasy.

"They wanted us to find it." I reflected aloud.

Sam snorted. "O’ course they did. Otherwise they wouldn’t have gone t’ so much trouble. If you ask me, someone’s ‘avin’ a great laugh about all this."

"Well at the risk of ruining their fun, we have to get the portrait down."

Sam nodded and looked uneasily up into the branches where the portrait rocked to and fro at every stir of the breeze.

"We need a ladder." I stated.

"Do you ‘ave one?" Asked Sam.

"You know ...I don’t rightly know." I answered with a small laugh.

"Come t’ of it, Oi don’t believe Oi’ remember seein’ a ladder on the property."

"I suppose we shall have to borrow one, then."

Sam shook his head. "Don’t worry, I know we ‘ave one at ‘ome. Oi’ don’t mind t’ go and fetch it... but maybe you’d best wait here, Mr. Frodo. It wouldn’t do to ‘ave that paintin’ disappear again."

I nodded in agreement and Sam trotted off on his mission while I stood guard over the portrait. After some moments of just standing and staring up into the branches I got bored, not to mention I was beginning to get a crick in my neck. The flash of sunlight reflected off of the swinging silverware was beginning to make my eyes water, too. Added to all of this was the fact that I was beginning to feel rather a ninny. It wasn’t as if the painting was going to disappear before my very eyes. At last, I sat down with my back against the trunk of the Party Tree and commenced to wait in a more comfortable fashion.

However, it seemed as if the minutes were stretching endlessly on and still Sam had not returned. I wondered if he had perhaps been mistaken in thinking that he had a ladder at home and had gone looking to borrow one after all. While I waited, I tried to remember if I had ever seen a ladder anywhere, at anytime, about the premises of Bag End. I even tried picturing the interior of the tool shed and all of its resident implements. But I could have counted on one hand the number of times I had visited the building, and when I had, I had scarcely paid attention to its inventory.

I rested against the tree, thinking and listening to the clinking of the cutlery and the occasional birdsong. My eyes sought out any sign of movement in front of me, but the only thing stirring in the immediate vicinity was the grass waving in the wind. There was no sign of Sam returning, nor was there any implication of someone trying to sneak back to steal the portrait.

After reaching the conclusion that Sam had definitely hit a snag in the ladder hunt, I sighed and stood up. Brushing off my trousers, I looked all around once more. Satisfied, I made the decision to risk a trip to the tool shed on the off chance that there might be a ladder there.

A tiny voice in the back of my mind nagged that leaving the portrait unattended might not be such a wise idea. A little later, as I was picking myself up off the floor of the gloomy toolshed after having tripped over a rusty bucket, I was, indeed, inclined to rethink my initial decision.

I emerged from the shed bedecked in cobwebs and ladderless, just in time to see that Sam had returned, equipped with a ladder, and, the Gaffer.

"Mr. Frodo!" He called as he hurried to meet me. "What ‘appened?"

Thinking that Sam was referring to my dusty trousers and the cobwebs in my hair, I replied, "Oh...nothing, really. I thought perhaps you had run into trouble finding the ladder, so I supposed it wouldn’t hurt to double check the tool shed. I tripped over a bucket and-"

But Sam was shaking his head. "No, Oi meant what ‘appened to the paintin’?"

I froze in the midst of dusting myself off. There was a note of trepidation in my voice as I replied slowly, "What... do you... mean?"

"Our ladder was on loan to Daddy Twofoot and we’ad to borrow it back, so t’ speak. That’s what took so long." Sam began to explain.

The Gaffer interrupted with a chuckle. " ‘Ad a ‘ard time convincin’ ‘im to let us ‘ave it, we did."

"By the time we got back ‘ere, there was no sign of you, or the portrait anywhere near the Party Tree!" Sam finished.

.....What could I do but stand chastised and hope that the portrait would make another appearance.

*****

Pippin and Merry turned up again around lunchtime. I filled them in on what had transpired in their absence and they listened in eager interest. It was hard to tell whether they were more astounded at the latest turn of events or regretful that they had missed out on the so-called "fun," as Pippin put it. The twinkle in his eyes was enough to raise my suspicions, momentarily. At the very least, their sudden and many comings and goings were enough to give one pause. I was sorely tempted to question them, however, for the time being I chose to ignore my suspicions and let the matter be.

It was just as well, for they insisted that we head down to
the Green Dragon for an early round of ale.

"Pip's treat!" Merry said. Pip nodded in agreement until he realized what it was Merry had said.

"What d' ye mean, my treat? I though' you were buyin' the first round."

"Come on, Pip!" Merry said slapping the younger cousin on the back. "You are merely buyin' the first round, is all. What say, Frodo? Up for a drink or two?"

"Well..." I replied with a grin, "if Pip is buying, I suppose I shall join you!"

The Green Dragon was busier than usual for this early in the day. It seemed that a lot of people were there to hear, much to my dismay, what they assumed was the last sighting of my portrait. Apparently, somewhere in between its exhibition at the Widow Rumble’s and its appearance among the branches of the Party Tree, it had paused in its travels for a brief showing, right here, at the Green Dragon.

"That's right," the Inn keeper, Milo Grubb explained, as he sat down three ales on the table for us. "Halfast Banks from Starfield was the last patron to leave," he stated. "Why, I no sooner closed the door and turned out the lights, then he was back bangin' on the door and sayin' there was someone peeking at him from the bushes."

"Tell us," Merry said eagerly, "what happened next?"

The barkeep nodded and continued. The entire room hushed as if trying to glean every single last word he might offer.
"Why, at first I thought he'd had too many mugs, an' I went with him just t' prove there weren't anybody out there. That's when I saw it... Mister Frodo's face smiling at me... just as if he were waitin’ for me to welcome him!"

Pippin looked at me innocently. "What were you doin' there, Frodo? I would have thought you’d be home in bed!"

Merry thumped him on the arm. "Not ‘our Frodo,’ you ninny! I think ‘e’s talkin’ about the paintin’."

Milo crossed his arms and continued with his narraitive. "Anyway, I pulled it out of the bushes an' brought it inside. I intended to keep it safe until morning so's I could return it personally to Mister Frodo...or to Miss Daffodil. But...." That's when the face fell. "When I awoke this mornin', the paintin' was gone again!"

"Gone? Tsk, tsk, tsk!" Merry said, a look of concern on his face.

"Why didn't you lock it up?" Ted Sandyman asked. "What with it goin' missing just as soon as it's found agin?"

Mr. Grubb was insulted and got quite huffy. "I took it upstairs with me to my livin' quarters. I never figured anybody would dare enter my rooms and nick it again."

I sat there, listening to all of this, trying to decide if I should relate my experience with the painting this morning and its consequential disappearance from the Party tree. I really didn't want to add to the mystery of the entire incident, nor did I wish to be an object of derision for having failed to secure my own painting. Why, it might even look as if I might have been involved with the disappearance....!

"I wonder where it is now, by chance?" Pippin mused aloud.
The crowd murmured again, speculations flying around the room as to who was behind this game of cat and mouse.

"I can tell you where it's not," the Gaffer's voice spoke up. He entered the tavern with Samwise.

"What d'ye mean, where it's not?" someone asked.

"Why, it's not in the Party tree," he said matter of factly."

"The Party tree?"

The Gaffer gave me a puzzled look. "Ye didn’t tell ‘em, Mr. Frodo?"

"Well...I ...uh...I hadn’t gotten around to it yet. I was still getting over the shock of the protrait turning up here first."

"Go on." Sandyman urged, while bestowing a suspicious glance upon me.
"My Samwise came home lookin' for a ladder. 'e said something 'bout a picture hangin' from the Party tree." the Gaffer continued. "Sam here say's he found it hangin' in th' Party Tree, an' needed a ladder t' get it down."

"Is that a fact, Sam?" Ted asked, leaning over.

Sam's face reddened and he nodded as he stole a look my way before answering. "It was there in th' Party Tree, alright," he admitted. "Oi went lookin' fer a ladder, an' when the Gaffer found it an' got back t' th' tree, it were gone! Silverware, tin cup an' all!"

Then, he added in an aside to me, "Oi'm sorry, Sor. Oi wasn't gonner mention it. Oi didn't think you'd be wantin' it known that the prank was pulled on you, too."

"That's alright, Sam," I assured him. "It was bound to come out sooner or later."

Then the question I dreaded came forth.

"Where was Mister Baggins during all of this?" Holman Burrows, the local dairyman, asked. "An' why wouldn't you want anyone to know about the paintin' unless you had somethin' t' do with it...?"

Sam glared at the dairy farmer. "e din't know 'bout it 'till Oi came by to tell 'im Oi'd seen it!"

"But that doesn't answer where Frodo was while you went to fetch the ladder," Ted Sandyman spoke up.

"In the first place, why would I steal my own portrait?" I asked, in a perplexed voice. "I stayed there as long as I could, then figured that Sam was having trouble finding a ladder and that maybe I could find one in the old workshed. I couldn't have been gone for more than...perhaps fifteen minutes!"

Ted Sandyman wasn't the least bit impressed. Another murmur rippled through the crowd, and for a moment I thought perhaps they were concurring with him that I had something to do with the comings and goings of my own portrait.

Holman spoke up on my behalf. "Quiet down! Quiet down! Now, I for one believe Mr. Baggins. He doesn't seem to be the kind to draw attention to himself like this."

That's when another voice spoke up from behind me. "I agree with Holman, whatever the reason."

I am certain I was surprised at this, for the voice belonged to Fastred Brandybuck. I turned to look my adversary in the eye. He wasn't smiling, but he acknowledged my shock. "It seems that Frodo's ‘face’ has shown up again."

"What?" "Where?" "Who has it now?" Questions were spilling out faster than anyone could possibly answer.

Fastred waved a hand to silence the group. "I, for one, have just seen it...hanging in Bennie Baggins's stable."

You're pulling our legs," Merry said.

"I kid you not, my friends," Fastred stated. "I happened to be walking past Miss Baggins' estate when she, herself, flagged me down to come help her."

"I wonder how you were so conveniently walking past Bennie's place." I murmured to myself.

"What'd you say, Frodo?" Pippin asked.

"Oh, nothing, Pip," I replied . "Just thinking out loud, is all."

"Well, let's go fetch it back!" someone in the crowd suggested.

"Don't you care to hear where it was hung?" Fastred asked, a mischievious look in his eyes. He was definitely enjoying the attention.

"Well, it seems that you plan to tell us no matter what," Merry said, looking down at his fingernails. "So tell us, Fastred, where did you find it?"

"Well, as I said, I was walking past Miss Baggin's estate when she waved me down to come help her. Naturally, I thought she needed a hand with one of her many ponies. But she insisted it was much more urgent than that. Imagine!" He gave a little laugh, then continued. "As we entered the stable, I saw that all the stalls but one was empty. She'd already turned them out to pasture. Except the last one."

I was trying to visualize the stable in my mind. That's when I realized which stall he was referring to: Naur's. Difficult at the best of times, and downright nasty at the worst, but he was Bennie’s prized stallion.

"Well, let's get goin'! Let's fetch that paintin' 'ome!" declared the Gaffer.

"Wait a minute!" I stood up and shouted. "If that painting is hanging where I think it's hanging, we won't want a huge crowd there. The heavens above only knows what her stallion can do if he's spooked by so many people rushing in on him!"

It took a few moments to convince the curious tavern patrons to see my point, but at last it was decided that I, Sam, the Gaffer, and Fastred would go.

"Well, seein' as you don't need our company," Merry said, "I think Pip and I will head back to Bag End... that is, wi' your permission, Frodo?"

I nodded absently, waving them on we prepared to go to Bennies and dealt with the disappointed crowd. Soon, we were off. As we headed towards Fanciful Farm, Bennie’s Pony breeding establishment, a low rumble caused me to look skyward. Dark clouds had gathered swiftly in the late afternoon sky, threatening rain. I quickened my pace, as did the others. Fastred took the lead, looking and acting, (in my opinion) as if he’d played an indispensable part in the finding of the painting.

"I can’t tell you just how upset Bennie was to have found that painting hanging over her pony’s stall." He was saying. "Why, as she put it, if it had fallen it could have seriously hurt that stallion of hers." He then leaned towards me. "I’m rather surprised that the prankster behind this isn’t feeling a breeze through his britches or possibly missing a couple of fingers. When Bennie first acquired him from the Elves, that little demon nearly nailed me a couple of times with his hooves. And just a bit ago, when I entered his stall, he almost took off one of my fingers!"

Sam interrupted, incredulous, "Oi still can’t believe that someone actually managed to hang that paintin’ over that wild ‘orse o’ miss Bennie’s!"

"That’s not all," Fastred continued, "Just wait till you see how it was hung. Took a lot of guts to do what they did."

"Or a lot of stupidity!" Sam muttered under his breath.

Sam’s Gaffer spoke up. "Strikes me as odd ‘ow that portrait keeps turnin’ up everywhere. Seems loike ‘e wants to see just how many places ‘e can nip the paintin’ to before ‘e gets caught."

Or, perhaps he, or they, figured us all for fools and assumed they wouldn’t be caught at all. I thought to myself as we continued up Willow Springs Lane to our destination.

"Well here we are! Fastred announced. (As if none of us had ever set foot on Bennie’s property before and had no idea where we were.) Then as we neared the stable he called out, self-importantly, "Bennie! I’ve brought help as promised."

"Well, it’s about time!" Bennie’s voice could be heard from inside the building. "It took you long enough!"

She came striding out of the barn, looking as if she would lambast poor Fastred for being a sluggard. Then quite suddenly, her tone changed. Her hands went instinctively to her head as she did her best to pull straw out of her dark curls. (Or at least what could be seen of her hair beneath her battered work hat.)

"Frodo! I wasn’t expecting you to be here!" She took me by the arm, pouting prettily, and led us to the stable.
"I was setting the ponies out to pasture and really didn’t notice it until I got to this end of the stable." Bennie went on to explain. It was obvious she was irrate, yet there was a tinge of worry in her voice. "I got all the other ponies outside but I haven’t been able to get Naur to cooperate."

"As if that’s unusual..." Fastred remarked rather sarcastically.

Bennie was shaking her head, concern showing openly on her pretty features. " No, this is different. While it’s true that ponies and horses can be easily spooked by unfamiliar objects, this doesn’t seem to be the case...No, this is different...somehow..." she said again. "Something is definitely not right with Naur."

One by one, we followed her down the barn aisle and as we neared Naur’s stall, she said, "Just look!" and pointed up, although she didn’t have to, you’d have had to be blind to have missed the portrait.

"‘Ow the blazes...?" Sam’s words trailed off in amazement.

My portrait stared down at us, hanging just high enough from the overhead bean as to be out of reach. But that wasn’t all. A bridle was draped on it artistically, with the reins tied rather prettily in a bow, and a pair of leather riding gloves were placed just ‘so’, looking as if my image was wearing them as a pair of ear muffs. And, just as Bennie had said, Naur was still in his stall, but oddly enough, he wasn’t making quite the ruckus I expected. There was none of the familiar snorting and pawing. And, although the stallion usually greeted people with both ears pinned back, today, only one ear was pinned back, the other flopped rather loosely to the side giving him a somewhat cockeyed appearance. Though his eyes rolled till the whites showed, the normal malice in them was absent. It seemed, instead, as if he was having difficulty in fixing his gaze on us. All the while, he swayed almost imperceptibly on his feet.

"What’s the matter with him?" I asked, more to myself, not really expecting an answer.

"When I tried to get him to come out of his stall," Bennie said, "he wouldn’t budge. It was almost... as if he couldn’t, as if he was afraid he’d fall if he lifted a foot."

As if to offer proof, Naur made as if to move closer to the sound of our voices and wobbled unsteadily. Bennie opened the stall gate and went to him, speaking softly in the Elven phrases she had been taught to calm him. I found myself holding my breath, sincerely hoping that whatever was the matter with him, he wouldn’t turn on his mistress. As she stood at his neck talking in reassuring tones, he swung his head around to her, in a jerky, unbalanced movement.

Apparently, Sam had been harboring some of my fear for he shouted, "Look out, Miss Bennie!" Too late. I was sure Bennie was about to be bitten on the face.

"Oh my word!" Fastred said in disgust, for Naur wasn’t biting Bennie. He was licking her! Big, sloppy, wet kisses, all over her face.

"Ugh!" Bennie sputtered as she managed to back away. "His breath is terrible!"

Fastred moved quickly to offer her his handkerchief, but she refused it and took the one the Gaffer offered instead. Just then, was heard a tremendous belch. We looked at each other and then at Naur. He nickered at us and slowly went down and back onto his haunches, sitting much like a dog, before flopping over on his side in the straw and began snoring gently.

Bennie sank to her knees at the stallion’s side, cradling his head in her lap and lamenting, "What’s wrong with him?"

"If Oi didn’t know better," came the Gaffer’s amused voice. "Oi’d say that little ‘orse is drunk."

"Drunk?" I echoed his last word.

"Miss Bennie, are you in here?"

All heads turned in the direction of the door at the far end of the stable. At that very moment, Bennie’s new stable hand, Rory Goodbody, the youngest son of the local farrier, had come seeking his employer. He was toting what looked like a wooden bucket, complete with a ladle. From the way he handled it I assumed it was empty.

"I’m here, Rory. What do you need?" Bennie called out, refusing to abandon her spot beside Naur.

Rory said nothing to the four gentlehobbits who stood outside Naur’s stall. He did however, bestow a curious, semi-suspicious glance upon us. I nodded and smiled politely at the lad. He nodded back, yet remained silent, merely stretching on tiptoe to peek over the top of the stall door in order to get a better glimpse of his mistress and her prostrate pony.

"What happened? What’s wrong with Naur, Miss?"

Bennie frowned up at the lad. "According to Mr. Gamgee, Naur is drunk."

The stableboy’s eyes grew as large as saucers. Then he blubbered, "Oi ‘ad nothin’ to do with it, Miss! I swear!"

Bennie stood and let herself out of the stall. "I never said you did, Rory." She nodded at the objects he was holding. "What have you there?"

Rory swiped at his using his shirt sleeve. "Oi was on my way to the pasture to check on the ponies when Oi nearly tripped over this." He brandished the bucket and ladle.

Sam took the empty bucket from him and sniffed it. "Cider." He said, a grim look on his face. "An’ not the sweet kind, either. Ponies an’ ‘orses love apples. Oi think whoever did this knew that, too. Oi’m not surprised that they used this stuff to make friends with Naur so they could move around in ‘is stall."

"You may want to check your cellars, I’ll warrant you might find one of your kegs of cider emptied." Fastred told Bennie with a smirk.

Bennie’s features were dark with anger. "Whoever did this.....Ohhhh!" she kicked at the stall door, heedless of her toes. "When I catch them, I’ll...I’ll...."

Naur raised his head and whinnied, then with another loud belch, laid his head down once more, closed his eyes and began to snore softly. I peered over the stall door.

"Well, he’ll be having sweet dreams for a while, I would imagine."

Bennie gave me a look that indicated she was not amused by my comment. "What am I going to do now? How does one sober up a drunken pony?"

"Maybe you could give him something that would make him sick enough to throw up, that might get it out of his system a little quicker." Fastred suggested.

"You idiot," Bennie snapped, obviously not concerned with courtesies at the moment. "horses and ponies can’t vomit. So, I’m afraid your idea won’t work."

" Oi think the only thing ye can do fer the time bein’ is t’ let ‘im sleep it off." Said the Gaffer. "O’d worry more about how to cure the ‘angover that comes after." He chuckled, then with a nod he indicated the forgotten painting, "In the meantime, Oi suggest we use this opportunity to get that portrait down."

So it was that Sam and I got the job of climbing up and standing on the stall partitions to undo the rigging while the Gaffer and Fastred made sure the painting didn’t fall on Bennie or the snoozing stallion. It wasn’t an easy job. More than ever, I was sure that whoever had pulled this off had an accomplice. Even with Naur inebriated, it would have taken at least two people to hoist the painting into position, then decorate it in an appropriately suitable equestrian theme. (Then, there was the ‘procurement’ of the cider beforehand...that must have taken some skillful pilfering.)
Thankfully, Naur slept through the entire business of putting his stall to right again, only hiccuping every so often to let us know he was still alive.

"We’ll that was easy enough." Said Fastred, as he brushed himself off.

"Easy fer ‘im t’ say." Sam muttered to me. "Oi’d ‘ave paid good money to see ‘is sorry backside up there on the wall tryin’ t’ untie those ropes..."

It was quickly decided that the portrait should be returned to Daffodil’s gallery as soon as possible. Bennie offered the use of one of her pony carts to deliver the painting and promptly dispatched Rory to fetch a sober pony and bring round the cart. I almost groaned when the stableboy returned with a dainty looking cart complete with a canopy trimmed with tassels and fringe.

"A simple cart would have been fine." I reasoned.

"It looks like it might rain." Rory pointed out. And indeed, the dark clouds of earlier didn’t look any less threatening now. "The cart might be too fancy, but it’s the only one that’s ready with tarp or can-o-pee to protect the paintin’."

There was no disputing the stableboy’s observation. And as Bennie also pointed out, the cart had curtains to hide the painting and the occupants from busy bodies and gossipers, not to mention pranksters. So, soon the portrait was safely ensconced in the back of the cart with the curtains drawn round to protect it from the possibility of foul weather and prying eyes.

That’s when Fastred proclaimed. "I’m certainly getting hungry. And a drink wouldn’t hurt, either."

He turned his famous charm upon Bennie. She responded by rolling her eyes but when Rory selflessly volunteered to stand guard over the cart and contents she reasoned, "I think it may be safe enough for us to sit a moment and sup before you fellows take the painting back to Daffodil..Although, I really don’t mind if the portrait stays here with me, Frodo."

I sucked in my breath, then shook my head, ‘no.’ "I really believe that it ought to be returned to Daffodil. She’s been worried sick over this entire affair."

"Oh, all right, Frodo, if you insist." And she gave me a fetching smile before wrapping her arm about mine as we headed inside.
I
t couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes later that Rory came bursting into Bennie’s hole, panting, "Miss Bennie! Mister Frodo! Someone is stealin’ the cart!"

Sure enough, as we in mass for the door, the cart could be seen swiftly vanishing down the lane in the direction of Hobbiton. Thanks to the drawn curtains it was impossible to tell who was driving it away!

Fastred took it upon himself to chastise Rory. "How could you let someone get to the cart? You were supposed to be guarding it!"

Rory trembled as he replied. From the look on his face, he fully expected Fastred to strike him for his mistake. "Oi’m sorry, truly Oi am! Please, Miss Bennie! Don’t be angry and please don’t fire me!"

"You’re not going to get fired, Rory. And no one is going to hurt you." At this she gave Fastred a steely look. "Just tell us what happened."

"Oi only wanted to make sure that Naur was doin’ allright! Oi didn’t figure it would ‘urt to sneak a peek at ‘im just for a minute or two. Oi wasn’t gone ‘ardly any time at all! Just as Oi was comin’ round the corner of the barn Oi saw the cart start to drive off. Oi couldn’t see who was in it, though, just heard ‘im say, "Gid ‘up, there!"

For a moment or two all we could do was look at one another helplessly. My portrait had been abducted again!

Bennie was the first to react. As she grabbed her hat and made to go out the door, we heard vow under her breath just what she planned to do to the culprits once they were caught. It didn’t promise to be pleasant.

But the Gaffer stopped her. "No goin' after them in the mood yer in, Lass."

Bennie scowled. "But it's my cart and my ponies that have been stolen this time! Do you think I’m going to stand for that? There’s no telling what will happen to my ponies. I intend to get them back right now!"

"And just where do you intend to start looking?" Asked Fastred. Then with a glance out the window he added, "Besides, it's about to rain, and all traces of their tracks will be washed away."

As if in answer, the sky opened up and sent a deluge of rain pouring down with a vengeance. There was nothing to be done now, but wait for the rain to abate. Hopefully Bennie’s wrath would diminish, as well.

Indeed the rainstorm dissipated almost as quickly as it had rolled in. Bennie’s ire, on the other hand, took a little longer to subside. However, with a little persuasion, (mostly on my part) we convinced Bennie there was nothing that could be done until morning, and left her with the promise that we would keep our eyes open for her pony and cart on our way home. So it was that Sam, the Gaffer, Fastred and I headed back towards Hobbiton. We spent most of the walk back listening to Fastred’s swaggering discourse on who the culprit was and how he was capable of giving the slip so easily. More than once I had to resist the urge to tell him to be quiet, and even more so to prevent dear Sam from attempting to tie Fastred’s tongue in a knot..

We left our pontificating companion at the Ivy Bush, as that was where his lodgings were. He invited us to join him for a drink before we went on our way, but after all that had happened today, I wasn't very much in the mood to answer curious questions about the latest sighting and what had happened. I was certain, however, that Fastred would make sure that everyone would know that I had been incapable of preventing my portrait from being swiped once again.

I also received an invitation from the Gaffer and Sam to join their family for a late meal, but I declined. At the moment I simply craved a little peace and quiet, and...perhaps a word or two with my errant cousins, Merry and Pippin.

The road was full of puddles as I walked the last bit up the Hill. As I approached my door, it opened wide. There stood Merry.

"I was wonderin' if you were comin' home or not," he said. Then he looked past me, a look of confusion on his face. "Where's your portrait?" he asked.

"I don't have it," was all I said.

"You don't have it? I thought that's what you went to do.""We managed to get it down from above Naur's stall." I said, not really caring to elaborate.

"You mean to tell me it got nicked again?" he asked.

I looked at him carefully. "I never said it got 'nicked' as you put it...."

"But you don't have it," he stated. "Or, did you return it to Cousin Daffodil?"

"No...It was taken again while we went inside Bennie's hole for a bite to eat." I finally admitted.

About this time, Pippin appeared from the kitchen. "While you were eating?"

"Along with Bennie’s cart and pony." I finished.

Merry looked at his cousin. "The nerve of some people!"

"Where's it got to now, I wonder...?" Pip asked.

"Who knows," I replied. "But if Bennie doesn't get her pony and cart back soon and in good condition, I hate to think of what she’ll do to the prankster or pranksters when caught."

There was a bit of silence as I settled into a chair. Then Pippin cleared his throat and asked, "Just what kind o' things are we talkin' about?"

I shrugged. "Knowing Bennie, it could be anything short of tarring and feathering the culprit to having him thrown in the lockholes at Michel Delving to cool his heels for a while."

Merry mulled this over and nodded his head. "Sounds like something Bennie would try. Well, I daresay the person that took that painting was pretty bold, if I do say so myself. Even braver than I would be."

Pip agreed. "Oh, yes. Much braver."