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It was well-known in Hobbiton that Mr. Frodo Baggins had inherited, along with Bag End and all lands pertaining thereto, a collection of magical toys which old Bilbo had accumulated through years of unseemly association with dwarves. What those toys might be was a matter of some speculation at The Ivy Bush, but as it was widely agreed that young Master Frodo was, like his cousin, if not 'safe' then at least 'warm', the toys were without a doubt of as fine a quality as the family silverware or the gold-trimmed chamber pots which graced the many bedrooms. And that, said Gaffer Gamgee whose pedlar's pack of gossip was kept amply supplied by his youngest son, was a vast deal finer than anything Mistress Lobelia would have countenanced had the property come to her.
In point of fact, while Samwise had the 'run of the smial' to the extent required by his duties as jobbing gardener and general factotum, he had yet to catch a glimpse of a single dwarvish engine. Rumour had made of Bag End such a warren of bathrooms, parlours, storerooms and kitchens that Hobbiton Hill must needs have been twice its size to accommodate them and Sam a hobbit of infinite resource to investigate his master's chattels unobserved. But as far as he could tell -- and the Gaffer had questioned him closely on the subject -- it was an ordinary smial with no more rooms than a solitary hobbit could use in a long lifetime, furnished in a commonplace though pleasing fashion well-suited to a descendant of the Old Took. There were no hidden compartments nor secret passageways and no thingumajigs from the Misty Mountains. Nary a one.
There were, however, legal documents, Baggins' family trees (carefully rolled and labelled with red ink), maps in shabby leather cases, and books in abundance. They overflowed the study and stood in drifts along the skirting boards, or leaned in tottering piles beneath the coat stands, in pantry cupboards, on bedroom windowsills, and even on the narrow shelf in the outside privy. Sam was duly impressed but the Gaffer, who thought of parchment as merely a convenient way to stop a draught, was disappointed, not to say miffed, by his son's failure to ferret out the mystery of Bilbo's curious wealth. He was also wont to tell Sam so, often and at length.
"What was young Sancho seeking after in the pantry if not toys and suchlike stuff?" he asked, with a deliberation fitting in one whose words might be taken down by the clerk from Grubb, Grubb and Burrowes in the event of a case at law. He punctuated the sentence with a flourish of his pipe in the direction of The Ivy Bush's chimney-breast, from which his now rapt audience expected at any moment to witness a rattle-bag of whirligigs come tumbling.
Old Noakes, seated nearest the ingle-nook, tried to appear unmoved by the perils of his situation while the other hobbits studied the smoke-blackened masonry above his head.
"Stands to reason," he said, and took a pull from his pint of Gildenfoot's Best. "Do swine love muck?"
"Ah," responded the Miller, whose perspicacity seldom rose to the occasion.
Sam glanced around the common room to see if anyone had heard the exchange, but the party of farmers playing backgammon in the corner had their heads bent close to the board. The Gaffer's fondness for airing his master's laundry in public was bad enough, but the likening of Frodo's imaginary toys to the contents of a pig sty was too much for Sam. He opened his mouth.
"Sancho was doing his grandda's bidding," said Tom, glancing ruefully at Sam over the rim of his tankard. "I heard he put up quite a struggle."
He had squirmed like an eel until Frodo had gripped him firmly by the collar and, with an aplomb to which that cheeky stripling from Buckland had been an admiring onlooker, ejected him from the servants' entrance in no uncertain terms. Sam wondered whether his master had ever been challenged to a round of fisticuffs at the Overlithe Fair and if he had proven to be a bantamweight or a featherweight when stripped down. There was a strength in his arm that no amount of book learning could impart and which the custom-tailored jackets of superfine wool were unable to disguise.
Did Frodo practise his footwork in the parlour at Bag End with naught but a pair of sheer linen drawers to cover his nutmegs? Or was the back room at Master Whiterick's Westfarthing Social and Sporting Club his haunt of choice? Sam took a sip of brown ale and grimaced. The garden was a better place for solitary contemplation than the public room at The Ivy Bush, and tomorrow he would ease the long hours from second breakfast to elevenses by reflecting on the intricacies of slipping and bobbing to the inside.
He winked at Tom.
"Money and jewels, o' course," he said to the assembled company, doing his best to keep his voice low in deference to the master's pride, "though Mr. Frodo swears there ain't enough dragon gold left at Bag End to line the bottom of a biscuit tin."
Gaffer Gamgee shifted uneasily on the oak settle. Folk might gossip over the garden gate about the source of Bilbo Baggins's wealth -- for everyone knew that Bungo hadn't a penny to his name when he married Belladonna Took as was -- but no villager would dare to utter the frightful words 'dragon gold' within earshot of the Gaffer. He had been confined to his cot for the best part of a sennight after the Unfortunate Occurrence at the Farewell Party when, startled by the appearance of a fiery worm, he had fallen spread-eagle across the already prone form of the Widow Rumble. The affront to her dignity had been trifling in comparison to the Gaffer's loss of a freshly drawn pint, and so he had told her. They hadn't spoken since, but as Belle would have said, it was an ill wind that blew nobody any good.
The Gaffer smiled. "Shush, Samwise, and mind your taters."
Sam whiffled into his beer. He had striven to mind his taters all winter, or rather, his master's taters -- their smooth red skins and moist flesh beckoning to him from the dim vastness of the root cellar -- but during those rare moments when the Gaffer had stopped pestering him on the subject of dwarven handicrafts, Sam had been sore beset by the unwelcome attentions of Meriadoc Brandybuck who hung around Bag End as though he had no smial of his own. Frodo might be willing to bear with the lad for kinship's sake but Sam felt no such obligation. Merry had fussed like a sitting hen about the master's conduct at Yuletide, chewing his nails to the quick while Sam made bread sauce for the chicken. Had Sam noticed Cousin Frodo's preoccupation with something in his waistcoat pocket during supper the previous night and had Frodo's manner seemed more than usually pensive? Why had he disappeared directly breakfast was over and could Sam ascertain whether he had stepped out to the village for a copy of The Delver or --
Sam's eyes had wandered to the whinberry tart on the sideboard and his thoughts to the image of Frodo in the back parlour having a peaceful snoozem amongst a scattering of biscuit crumbs with The Daily Delver spread open on his chest.
No, Master Merry, he had said, I'll do nothing of the sort. He won't have gone far, you may depend upon it. And I know naught of weskits.
For how, after all, could Sam have given Frodo's silk embroidered waistcoat his full attention at the Yuletide supper when he had been immersed in the far greater splendours of the cider basted roast goose, the festive sugar plums, and the velvety expanse of his master's breeches?
The Gaffer's conviction that proper deportment required an apprentice to lower his gaze in the presence of his betters had caused frequent hardship for Sam who, if the truth were known, had difficulty lowering it further than the horn button placket on Frodo's inexpressibles. If there had been aught behind the midnight blue cloth beyond what nature had intended, Sam would have spotted it, and doubtless the gold link chain which spanned the slender middle led to nothing more unusual than Bilbo's filigreed watch case.
Sam stared at the sputtering candles on the mantel shelf, momentarily forgetful of the attentive company as he contemplated the unspeakable merits of Frodo's pockets. Next time, perhaps, he would tell young Meriadoc to close his latch and leave him to mind them in private.
"Muffin," he had murmured instead, and given the stripling a twist of barley sugar to keep him quiet.
He swallowed a mouthful of warm ale and faced down the Gaffer's scrutiny with as bland an expression as he could muster when the vision of Frodo's what-you-may-call-it was so fresh in his mind. He knew on which side his bread was buttered.
"Don’t chafe the boy, Ham," said Old Noakes, brushing aside the litter of plates to rest his grizzled feet on the board, the remains of the mushroom rarebit forgotten in the heat of argument. "He don't understand the worth of mechanical contrivances."
Daddy Twofoot quirked his eyebrow in a way whose significance was lost on Sam, but a sound not unlike the screech of a rusty hinge broke forth from the Gaffer and Noakes laughed.
"Take heed," said Daddy, directing a finger towards the vast smial which dominated the prospect from the Bywater Road, "whatever the old master brought home from unknown parts didn't leave Bag End when he vanished. It bides there yet, down under Hill."
The porch chain lanterns of Bagshot Row and the string of lights that marked the deep-set casements of Bag End's 'best rooms' were hidden from view by the stable wall, but all present turned their heads attentively to peer through the open window into the courtyard of The Ivy Bush. It was no great thing to imagine the oak which Bungo Baggins had planted after the Fell Winter probing the secret corners and passages for the worm's stolen hoard while Frodo slept unwittingly in his high feather bed. Sam shuddered.
"Naw," said Old Noakes, with a thump of his hand against the settle for emphasis. "They could have carried the treasure back to the Lonely Mountain that very night and none of us been the wiser. They could have carried me away, I was that soused."
As he reached for the pipe tucked into the sleeve of his drabbet smock, his friends took the opportunity to reflect on the memory of the old hobbit lying face down amidst the bedstraw. No one could deny the truth of his words.
"And who is they?" asked Sandyman, just to be difficult.
"Dwarves," said the Gaffer, piercing the miller with a gimlety eye. "We saw them roll up the Hill, but did we see them come down? More than pavilions and cracker papers left the Party Field or I'm a --"
"You can't eat your cake and have it, Dad," interjected Sam. "If the treasure went east as Old Noakes says, then neither jewels nor playthings are hidden at Bag End, and that's a fact. So which is it?"
"We don't know, do we," said Tom before the Gaffer could deliver a reprimand, but whether the maggot found its way into the latter's think box as the result of Sam's cheek or whether it was the inevitable consequence of an avid curiosity unsuited to a gardener's station in life, there could be no doubt that Gaffer Gamgee was overcome by an insatiable desire for the truth of the matter from that moment onward.
"Samwise," he said, a queer glint in his eyes that brooked no argument, "although I'm not one to nosey at other folks' movables, I wouldn't baulk if a morsel of gossip were to happen my way concerning 'em. 'Twould go no further."
"You're close as wax, Gaffer," replied Daddy Twofoot. Old Noakes nodded.
"It's nigh on three score years since I first pondered the mystery of Bilbo's wealth," the Gaffer continued as Sam readied himself for the outcome of a life spent in conscientious pursuit of tittle-tattle. "They say he squandered his last fifty ducats on the Party, but that's gammon and spinnage. There isn't a Baggins born who doesn't know how to mind his pennies. Yes, he was generous with his gifts, but his fine linen sheets had mends in them, as our Marigold will tell you. Young Mr. Baggins is no spendthrift neither. Why, his sheets are --"
Sam would have been interested to hear the Gaffer's speculations on Frodo's household management, but mention of 'linen sheets' in the same breath as 'Mr. Baggins' had summoned a vision of Frodo in a state wholly lacking in pockets. The soundness of Bag End's stock of linen and the means by which an item might be 'turned' were of less consequence to Sam than the morning light that stippled the counterpane with flecks of gold as he unlatched the casement in the master's room each day, pausing with his fingers on the metal to breathe in the smell of woollen jumpers, Longbottom Leaf, and rubbed leather bindings before the breezes carried it off. And then, while Frodo was taking his bath after breakfast, Sam would often pay a visit to the garden shed and --
"What d'ye say, Samwise?"
"Oh, aye," he answered, stirring from his dream of sucking bletted medlars long enough to find himself clapped on the shoulder and told that he was a 'good lad' who obeyed his elders. He was unworthy of the epithet and ignorant of the manner in which the Gaffer expected him to earn it, but he had the wits to hide his confusion behind a pint pot of ale. If he were obliged to do other than peep through windows he would be in a sad pickle.
"You're over fond at times," grumbled the Gaffer, "but you'll do. Keep your eyes on the job and Mr. Frodo will never twig."
If his outdoor servant displayed a sudden passion for tailoring it was probable that Frodo would notice sooner rather than later, but as the Gaffer had failed to remark on Sam's dedication to the cut of his master's trousers it seemed that another sort of job was meant. Sam would have blamed his Dad's obsession with the whereabouts of Bilbo's trifles on the vagaries of advancing age, but he feared that a lack of occupation in the months since the Disappearance was a likelier cause. If only the Gaffer's maggot had taken the form of an odd hat or the letting of wind instead of an idle tale to be discussed at The Ivy Bush when meatier gossip was wanting. It was all of a muddle.
"Aa, but --" he began.
"The boy has a talent for chickery-pokery, if I'm not mistaken," observed Daddy Twofoot. "Short on words but sharp as a fox."
"Words ain't his greatest strength," the Gaffer admitted, looking at Sam as if measuring him for a suit of clothes, "but he knows a thing or two about root crops."
"What -- "
"He'll need more than an eye for a Bywater Model Parsnip if he's not to come a cropper," said Tom, throwing a sympathetic glance at his cousin. "'A lesson in burglary wouldn't go amiss."
"I didn't --" said Sam, though he knew that his careless assent to the Gaffer's plans could not be taken back if he wished to delve the ground at Bag End in future or grease the master's wheelbarrow. "Burglary?"
"Out on ye, Tom Cotton!" replied the Gaffer mildly. "Don't worrit him. T'ain't burgulary to peep through a window when the chance offers. Now hark, Samwise, for I won't repeat my words."
Sam had opportunity in the weeks ahead to observe the Gaffer's second faunthood at close quarters, for although he would as soon have spent each working day knees down in the vegetable patch his dad would have none of it. The Gaffer passed his forenoons plucking greenfly from the sweet peas while Sam's attention was bent perforce on the herbaceous border adjacent to the master's study. It was not until the Gaffer's painful joints had driven him homewards after dinner and Frodo had set out for a brisk constitutional in the direction of The Green Dragon that Sam was allowed to mind his tomatoes in peace.
But in spite, or perhaps because, of the Gaffer's meddling in Sam's accustomed duties, the garden at Bag End had become a subject of wayside conversation on both sides of The Water. It was commonly agreed that the ornamental plantings of hollyhock and clematis were the most lovingly tended plantings in the Shire, and the tiny scrap of camomile lawn -- which could be admired by any hobbit who stopped to light his pipe in the shadow of the laburnum -- was without question the trimmest and most sweetly-scented herbage west of the Brandywine.
So well-tended were these proofs of Sam's ability that Frodo's neighbours were shocked to see the rest of the once fine garden going to seed. Stinging nettles encroached upon the kitchen steps and dandelions appeared among the marigolds; there was groundsel in the flower pots and bindweed in the water butt. It surprised no one that Frodo Baggins, who traipsed about in all weathers like a vagabond, was willing to turn a blind eye to his servant's slipshod ways, but some thought it queer that Gaffer Gamgee had failed to notice Sam's new-found partiality for climbers. Was he wandering in his wits?
Maybe, remarked the traveling cutler from Soggy Bottom to his audience at The Green Dragon, young Mr. Baggins was too penny-wise to hire a third pair of hands. Everyone attested to the length of Frodo's pockets, but none could account for the Gaffer's astonishing negligence nor Sam's dereliction of duty after the splendid start he had made in September. Those who were privy to the discussion at The Ivy Bush kept their own counsel; not a hobbit was prepared to give the cutler the advice which the Gaffer himself had conspicuously ignored: Don't go getting mixed up in the business of your betters, or you'll land in trouble too big for you.
The cutler concluded, after endless chitchat with these dull and vexatious Westfarthing hobbits, that young Master Gamgee must be nursing his clematis with an eye to the first place ribbon at the Midyear's Fair. Aye, said his listeners agreeably; if ever there was a 'coming hobbit' in this corner of the Shire, it was Samwise. There could be no other explanation.
Sam, upon hearing of the conversation from Tom Cotton, was upset by the slur on Frodo's character, though if it was true that a ribbon were to be the end result of his share in the conspiracy he would take the insult in good part. Not a thing could be done to cure the Gaffer of his maggot until a change of season gave the patrons of The Ivy Bush something new to ponder. In the meantime, Sam would busy himself with the contemplation of his master's handstaff and tackle the nettles as often as he dared.
He preferred to reflect on Frodo's asset in the seclusion of the potting shed or the solace of his narrow cot at Number 3, but it was prone to enter willy-nilly into the most menial of garden chores. Whether he was earthing up taters, sowing radishes, or standing down wind of the manure pile, it rose from the ground like a puck-fist in a damp meadow. The Gaffer had advised him more than once to 'do for Mr. Frodo' as old Holman Greenhand had done for Master Bilbo in his day, and though Sam understood that in addition to his customary outside chores he was to polish the hardware and scrub the flagstones he was ready to perform any service that would add to Frodo's ease.
The proper management of Bag End's garden depended on forethought as much as it did on the Gaffer's charms for corky ringspot, but how Sam's belief in painstaking groundwork could be brought to bear in the case of bedsport, when the means to acquire the necessary skills were lacking in Hobbiton, remained to be seen. His lifelong familiarity with his own tadger had not allowed him to establish a closer acquaintance of the sort which he had imagined with regard to Frodo's, so while he weeded and tilled and clipped the chamomile lawn he watched the bees suck nectar from the borage and hoped for an opportunity to proof the pudding.
It was unfortunate that gossip at the inn had led to an increase of traffic in Hill Lane, for as well as amateur horticulturists keen to catch a glimpse of the soon-to-be prize clematis, a gaggle of misses with sketchpads and charcoal pencils was generally to be found leaning across the stone wall or perched on the stile over the way. The press of lasses attempting to capture Sam's likeness against the backdrop of Bag End's Fancy in full bloom and the Gaffer's unvarying admonition to 'mind your toes with them edgers' had dampened Sam's ardour to a degree. He held his breath at every sound and when Frodo, who had begun to glance from the window at odd moments, asked one morning if there had been an accident in the lane, Sam muttered 'in a manner o' speaking' and went back to his work.
At three of the clock he had attained a position of advantage over his master's succulent stamen when, as luck would have it, the hobbit in question looked out a second time and caught Sam in the act of hoeing the borders. Sam blushed and stammered and wished for a small landslide to cover his shame but none was forthcoming. They exchanged an affable remark or two about the mild spring weather and Frodo observed that Sam was surely on the verge of heat-stroke and should take a pint of beer from the cellar if it suited. Sam replied that it suited very well, thankee, sir and Frodo went in after fastening the stay to secure the window open.
Sam removed his jacket and put on his broad-brimmed straw hat, since heat-stroke was to be avoided at all costs, and bore down upon the dandelions as if his wool-gathering had made the necessity for a thorough weeding of the grounds even more urgent. He might not have the wits to gratify his dad on matters pertaining to Bilbo's playthings, but he knew how to grub up dandelions and prune a cherry. The Gaffer, whose hips were giving him gip, had walked down the lane to The Ivy Bush for a glass of ginger cordial and would not be returning to Bag End until the morning, the idle misses had gone home for their tea, and Sam would venture into the cellar before long to sample the ale which his master had kindly offered.
An hour passed in this fashion, undisturbed by the chatter of village hoydens, and Sam's ruminations on his life in service waxed vivid. His hand-me-down breeches, which had been loose in the crutch at breakfast, were curiously tight of a sudden, and had it not been for the wind that ruffled the hem of his home-spun shirt his skin might have burst from the heat. He wondered if Frodo had laid his pen aside and withdrawn from the study to rest a little in the deepening afternoon, the sun motes caressing the abandoned page and the spatters of ink on the green blotting-case. Was he abed in the altogether or, what was more likely, preparing crumpets for his tea -- with sweet butter, Sam fancied, and a drizzle of raspberry honey?
The curtain swelled briefly outwards, though not a sound could be heard from the smial above the steady drone of bumble-bees in the marjoram. Sam would stow away the grubber soon and wash himself at the well, but for now he gazed at the open window, wavering an instant between a curiosity born of the Gaffer's maggot and a reluctance to intrude on Frodo's quiet. Just as he had decided that discretion was the better part and had stretched out his hand to gather the dark brown roots into a bundle, a noise like the click of a stag beetle trapped in a bucket issued from the study.
He cocked his head and it came again -- a gentle 'tap', then a rhythmic squeak of unoiled metal, followed shortly thereafter by a shout of familiar laughter. Not once did he think that Frodo's merriment could be a harbinger of toys in the study. No, it was common-or-garden nosey-parkering of the sort honed by weeks of skulking in the flowerbeds that made Sam drop the grubber, arrange the stiffness in his drawers, and rise to his feet with a sense of fresh-kindled purpose.
He had spied many things through the windows at Bag End -- Frodo doodling on a napkin or sopping up his egg with a finger of toast -- and he had risen in the expectation of seeing nothing more remarkable on this occasion, but he knew straight off that he would never be able to tell his Gaffer about Mr. Bilbo's ill-gotten gains. The ingenious contrivance on the writing table could not be the kind of toy that Daddy Twofoot had imagined, nor was it one that Sam would describe in mixed company. Nonetheless, and as disappointed as he was by his failure in this instance, he inched towards the clematis with a burgeoning awareness of the toy's merits and promptly encountered the upturned prongs of the dandelion grubber.
"Ouch," he said. Frodo was too spellbound to give any sign of having heard the exclamation, and Sam moved closer.
"Bother," he added, for good measure. He ought to have held his breath perhaps but the buttons at his waistband were nigh to popping from the strain of a sizeable lunch and his master's were in a similar parlous condition.
"You must be tired of crouching below my windows like a hedge-creeper," observed Frodo, his eyes resting briefly on the crown of Sam's hat. "Why don't you come in?"
"There's no hedge at Bag End, sir, begging your pardon," said Sam, loath to acknowledge the indiscretion when his Gaffer was responsible for it.
"Of course not, but come inside anyway. The clematis will muddle along without you."
"Aye," said Sam since he had, as it happened, been on the brink of stepping in for a mug of small beer and a cold turnip pasty, but he was unsure whether Frodo intended him to broach the barrel first or go to the study for a second look at the cunning device. "Should I --"
"Master Hamfast has left, I believe, and the accident in the lane has been cleared." Frodo pinched the bridge of his nose as though the effort of watching the toy's moving parts had brought on a headache. "A moment of your time, if you please."
Now that Sam had fulfilled his obligation to the conspirators at The Ivy Bush there was no good reason to loiter near the window; a direct order from his master took precedence over the Gaffer's whims in any event. It was no one's fault that Bilbo's treasure-trove was of a nature unfit for modest hobbits or that Sam, who had an aptitude for ropes, knots, and machinery of all kinds, was agog to inspect the mechanism.
"Right you are," he replied, and trotted around to the scullery door without a thought for his filthy hands or state of partial undress. He would have paused to wipe his feet on the scraper and brush the dry earth from his legs, but it was plain as a peascod that Frodo's breeches were vexing him. If he could satisfy Master Meriadoc on the subject of his cousin's weskit and relieve Frodo of his troubles at a single blow then he would consider the afternoon well spent.
"One foot after t'other, you daft bugger," he said under his breath, and hastened down the passage in the certain knowledge that his chances of getting there with both feet -- or with aught else for that matter -- were remote at best. He could picture things otherwise in the solitude of the shed, and had done so often since Bilbo's vanishment, but when he turned into the study and the cause of Frodo's laughter was there in plain view, his heart sank to his toes.
"Bless me," he whispered. "Painted mithril?"
"Indeed," said Frodo. "And worth a king's ransom. You were by the window for at least five minutes; what do you think?"
Sam quelled the urge to cover the toy with his hat and instead averted his eyes from the table. His sole adventure at Frogmorton's knocking shop had not prepared him for the lifelike craftsmanship of the magic trinket which far surpassed the simple woodcuts in The Hobbiton Penny Illustrated Paper. He knew that Elves had a taste for boating and a love of poetic composition, but it seemed that an aptitude for tickle-tail was also among their accomplishments. He was unqualified to render judgement on a trifle that was evidently meant for gentlehobbits and, as the Gaffer had frequently impressed upon him, it was not a gardener's place to think; nevertheless, if he had a thought in the present case, it was that Gandalf's dwarvish company had played a trick on the old master.
Mr. Frodo's clockwork Elves were as splendidly proportioned as they ought to be if rumours of Elven appearance spoke true, and their tongues as merry as Gandalf had said; yet -- and here Sam peeked sideways to confirm his suspicions -- the casual disregard for the fate of their underlinens and the unseemly posture of the kneeling Elf were at odds with their elevated station. Besides, the fellow whose mouth was going like the clappers had a smudge on his bum.
"Tut," said Sam, as the other Elf gave a final thrust and ground to a halt with his bits dangling. Thorin Oakenshield must have had a hearty laugh at the Wood-elves' expense before he came to grief; doubtless he thought it a fine jest. Poor Bilbo had been a confirmed bachelor with scant knowledge of the upstairs rooms at The Green Dragon and no interest whatsoever in pockets or petticoats. In all probability, he had fallen into one of his queer fits at sight of the toy and the dwarves had been forced to revive him with seed cake and lemonade. Sam was made of sterner stuff and his knowledge, though limited, was of a practical kind. He bent to examine the metal contraption, discreetly adjusting his tool pouch to hide the evidence of his affections, and winced as the belt dug into his middle. Elves might lack staying power when push came to shove ha'penny but the same could not be said of hobbits; he had been hard as a millstone since luncheon.
"Tut?" asked Frodo, his eyes resting on his gardener's dishevelled clothing and dirty toes. Sam glanced down to see whether the sunbeams had exposed his upstart privates, but the unrelenting stiffness in his breeches was thoroughly hidden behind a roll of twine and a pair of secateurs.
"I've never seen the like," he replied. He was still unable to decide what Frodo had meant by 'think' but in the absence of anything else to say he was content to state the obvious. 'Thinking' aloud was a dangerous business, as he had discovered at The Ivy Bush after his intemperate remarks on dragon gold, and he was reluctant to acknowledge his preference for a feather bed and mutual satisfaction over scrap mithril in case Frodo thought him ill-mannered. He might, he supposed, venture an opinion on the dwarven craftsmanship or, if his master were willing, suggest an immediate trial of the method.
"Meaning no offence," he quickly added, for he didn't care to give the impression that he was casting aspersions on Mr. Bilbo's weakness for decorative collectibles.
"None taken," answered Frodo, gazing dreamily at the Elf's livid member. "Nor have I." He nudged it with a finger and the articulated joint lifted slightly. "When I spotted you wielding the scuffle hoe earlier, you were ruddy-faced and on the verge of collapse. That's what comes of pulling roots all day, I said to myself, but it's entirely Sam's affair. Then you swore just now, and --"
"I didn't," said Sam, who would as soon have eaten his supper cold for a fortnight than swear at Bag End.
"Pardon me." Frodo coughed politely. "I stand corrected. You said 'ouch' and 'bother', then you blocked the light with your hat." He smiled and Sam's tool pouch quivered.
"The clematis is exceptional, by the way," he continued. "Unique in my experience both here and at Brandy Hall. They tell me it might win first prize at the Fair. In fact, The Green Dragon and The Ivy Bush are a-buzz with talk and I daresay the rumours have spread as far as the River. No one has ever accused hobbits of knowing how to keep a secret, although Bilbo was out of the common run, as you can see." He pointed at the motionless elves.
"A secret?" asked Sam, a trifle bewildered. "Mr. Bilbo didn't tell you --"
"No, he didn't," replied Frodo tartly. "His spectacular disappearance was the last act in a half century spent confounding his relations. It's just as well that Saradoc saw fit to give me a copy of The Pleasures of Nature Displayed because all I learned from Bilbo was how to dry off a fly with a false cast."
Sam tutted again.
"Happen he was keeping the toy to himself so he could enjoy it in the comfort of his --"
"Bah!" said Frodo with a grimace. "Towards the end of his time in Hobbiton he cared for nothing but his memoirs and his horde of young admirers. I'm afraid it was little more than injured vanity which prevented him from admitting that his dwarvish friends had palmed him off with a few bags of gold and a collection of bawdy playthings. Why he didn't take the toys with him is a mystery although -- " He examined Sam's tool pouch with an abstracted air. "Perhaps not."
It was no mystery to Sam. The leather satchel which he had stubbed his toe on in the front entrance last twenty-second of September had been too full of pound cake and mixed biscuits to hold even a single dwarven toy let alone a collection. A hobbit of one hundred and eleven years generally kept a closer watch on his victuals than he did on his bag of tricks.
"As to that --" Sam began, but Frodo had turned his face to the lavender clematis with a look which suggested that Bilbo's pastimes were no longer of any moment now that Bag End and its perquisites had been consigned to a new owner. Sam sighed inwardly. If his master preferred to chat about the garden they could withdraw to the cellar for a pint glass of ale and he would explain the virtues of a well-trained climber. Doubtless Bilbo's taste for foreign-made goods was best left to those who knew of such things; where matters of garden maintenance were concerned, Sam was on firmer ground.
"Have you ever in your life seen one that big?" he asked, thinking of the first place ribbon and the dusty spot on his mantel shelf where he would pin it.
"Not that I can recall," replied Frodo. He pulled out the walnut armchair and sat down with his elbows on the blotting-pad. "It's the most remarkable colour, too. But why does it fail prematurely?"
"It doesn't fail," said Sam, shocked to the soles of his muddy feet. "It rests and then it blooms in time for your birthday. It's what they call a --"
"Are you quite done playing silly buggers?" Frodo snapped. "I meant the toy. Why does it stop before it's finished?"
"Finished, Mr. Frodo?" The pained expression of the Elf with the prodigious flapdoodle was no more in keeping with his noble lineage than the other's bared arse, but for all Sam could tell the fellow had finished long since. "They're made of cogs and gears, poor sods. They can't--" Sam clenched his fist to avoid making a gesture well-known in the seamier alleys of Hobbiton but out of place at Bag End.
"I'm aware of that," said Frodo, sitting back in his chair and arranging the Elves to better catch the light. "Let me rephrase the question. It doesn't go for as long as I had hoped it would. If the thing is defective --"
Sam clucked his tongue. Frodo was far too young to be dependent on mechanical contrivances; he had plainly been deprived of company for an unconscionable length of time thanks to Bilbo's negligence. There were more ways to silence a dog than choking him with pudding and if, as Sam suspected from the good-natured banter at The Ivy Bush, the innkeeper conducted an under-the-counter trade in curious goods, he would put in for a copy of the catalogue on the morrow. It never hurt to anticipate your master's needs even if you were well-equipped to satisfy them in the usual way.
"He wants a drop of oil to lubricate his parts," he said, aiming a finger at the kneeling elf whose mouth had frozen fast within hailing distance of its goal. "I could hear him from the shrubbery."
"So I assumed," answered Frodo. "Why else would you have lingered beneath my window when there's a half acre of tangled undergrowth craving your attention?"
"You laughed," said Sam.
"I did, and when you obligingly stuck your head up I decided that your knowledge of crude mechanics would stand us in good stead. The Mathom-house won't pay the cost of carriage for overweight packages unless the blasted things are in fit condition to be --"
"Overweight?" exclaimed Sam, imagining Mr. Bilbo's pony laden with countless odd-shaped boxes in addition to the bags and chests which the Gaffer had often attested to. "How many packages, sir, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Several. The wardrobe is a positive embarrassment of riches." Frodo studied the toy for a minute, then removed a key from his waistcoat pocket and placed it on the table. "Perhaps I should give an account of how I found them. I'm not keeping you, am I?"
"No, Mr. Frodo. I'm done for the day."
"I was done by noontime, after witnessing an interminable quarrel at The Dragon on the topic of potatoes and eelworm resistance."
"Eelworm?" repeated Sam, in familiar territory at last. "Sweetheart would be my choice, but Farmer Cotton swears by Ruby Whizzles."
"Yes, I gathered that," said Frodo. "He and Odo nearly came to blows. An intemperate concern for the well-being of root crops can upset the most phlegmatic of hobbits, as your Gaffer would say if he had a more extensive vocabulary. However that may be -- I stopped for a quick fortifier at The Ivy Bush and it was during my third pint of cider that I decided to unclutter the smial. In a modest way, you understand."
Sam murmured his assent and Frodo continued.
"I was tidying the wardrobe where Bilbo kept his silk embroidered waistcoats, when I stumbled upon a cracked leather portmanteau in the back corner behind a box of lawn handkerchiefs. I might have missed it altogether owing to the vast number of antiquated suits --"
"Mr. Bilbo was a fine gentlehobbit, sir."
"He had too many clothes for a bachelor of retiring disposition; I'll send them to the Almshouse when I'm able, along with a selection of gold-trimmed chamber pots. But as I was saying -- " He waved his hand airily at the toy. "The compartments of the portmanteau were crammed with objects of a like size, wrapped in paper and secured by wax seals. You can imagine my curiosity."
Sam could imagine many things -- the dimly illumined confines of Bilbo's closet; a century of weskits hanging in serried ranks; the strange devices in their brown cocoons; his master bending to caress the painted metal, a smile on his lips as he lifted each toy to the light; the dust.... Had Frodo touched his placket for reassurance as Sam would have done in his position?
"I broke the seals. Soon I was surrounded by a multitude of elves, each more marvellous than its predecessor and more -- " He cleared his throat and stared at the aspidistra as if the attempt to describe Bilbo's treasures and the narrow escape which they had made from the clutches of the Sackville-Bagginses were too much for him.
"Naughty?" ventured Sam. The delights to be savoured in Frodo's wardrobe were surely of greater sophistication than a dwarvish toy with painful joints and a bad case of stone-ache, but Sam lacked the know-how to guess what they might be. He was, nevertheless, eager to learn.
"Elaborate," Frodo replied in his chilliest voice. "So elaborate that it was impossible to tell without testing them if the toys were in proper working order after decades of neglect. I should be surprised if Bilbo had opened the portmanteau once in sixty years."
"Lumme!" said Sam, relieved that the conversation had at last come around to the subject of careful tool maintenance. He was ready to proffer advice from 'The Gardener's Pocket Reference' if Frodo asked for it, or even if he didn't. "'Tools that are kept in a box may be injured by rubbing against each other and the hand may be hurt in feeling among them to find the thing that is wanted.'"
"I suppose it might be," said Frodo, with an eye to Sam's pouch, "although I don't usually have any trouble finding the 'thing' that is wanted. The problem, my dear, is that I can't make a bequest on Bilbo's behalf to the museum in Michel Delving unless the patrons can be guaranteed to receive their money's worth."
"You mustn't -- " Sam faltered, unsure of his ground. The master bedroom at Bag End was a more fitting address for a private collection than the curio cabinets at the Mathom-house where the ancient halberds of the Hobbitry-in-arms formed a major portion of the exhibit. If Frodo's loft was cluttered with custom-made items from the Misty Mountains, it was no wonder that Bilbo had been less disposed than some to bestow his mathoms on his neighbours. "The museum?"
"Where else would such an important assemblage of thirteenth century dwarvish metalwork be displayed to advantage? The proceeds from admission could be given to the Westfarthing Fund for Widows and Orphans and a small brass plaque affixed at the museum entrance in Bilbo's honour. But", said Frodo, whisking out a handkerchief and polishing the elf's bum until it gleamed bright as a lily, "it 'wants a drop of oil to lubricate its parts'. And so, I would assume, do the others." He looked at Sam expectantly.
"Ah." Sam pulled on his lip while he considered Frodo's proposition. "It might go ill for Mr. Bilbo's reputation if folk thought he was partial to --"
"Nonsense," interrupted Frodo briskly. "Bilbo had no reputation, or not of the sort you mean. His perpetual youth and inexhaustible wealth were remarked upon less often than his being a confirmed bachelor, but your friends at The Ivy Bush won't have told you that. I'm partial to it myself, as you may have noticed. Shall we -- " He nodded at the toy.
"Aye," said Sam, who had begun to suspect that Holman Greenhand might have done for Mr. Bilbo in ways akin to those which had occupied his own mind since Frodo's coming-of-age. It was possible that he had misunderstood his master's meaning -- what if Frodo's 'partiality' were for peculiar toys or, even worse, Big Folk? -- but there could be little doubt that the vigorous action of the kneeling Elf had set off an upheaval beneath Frodo's placket. Sam's toes curled. "I'll have it running smooth as butter before you can say Tobold Hornblower."
"Splendid. I knew that I could trust to your knack with ironmongery." He picked up the key and waved Sam closer. "I found this at Yuletide in the secret compartment of Bilbo's desk. I've been carrying it in my waistcoat pocket ever since, to Merry's chagrin. I have to confess--" He inserted the key and began to wind. "-- I'm disappointed that it belongs to an assortment of dwarven hardware rather than a store of dragon gold. I'd been planning to buy the three volume edition of Milfoil's Chrestomathy, but now -- " The standing Elf resumed his thrusting motion and the other squealed in protest.
Sam wasn't disappointed in the least. Frodo's library of five hundred volumes was already the biggest in the Westfarthing, and his expenditure on ink and parchment sufficient to keep several large hobbit families in strong drink for a year. Besides, a three volume chrestomathy -- whatever that was -- could scarcely compete with the earthier pleasures of bed and board, or the amusement to be won from the sight of an Elf with a prickle in his mouth. Sam scratched his head.
"'Tis a shame about the squeak," he said, "but a dribble of oil in the right spot would do the trick."
"So you said, but do you know -- " Frodo paused as if to determine Sam's readiness for the confidence. "I think that its lack of stamina is more disturbing than its squeak and a mere dribble won't remedy the situation. I couldn't brew a decent pot of tea in under a minute, let alone–"
"Happen elves are hastier than hobbits," said Sam doubtfully. The Fair Folk never came to the point in any manner of speaking from what Mr. Bilbo had told him; it was a wonder they hadn't dwindled sooner. He thought it more likely that an elf in a hurry might stop to write a scrap of verse and forget where he'd left off.
"They couldn't very well be slower. If this were a hobbit toy, they'd be seated on opposite sides of a table exchanging information on eelworm or rusty blight over a pint of hard cider."
"But they'd enjoy a spell of firkytoodling afterwards," muttered Sam, as the toy froze in mid-utterance for the second time, "then sup on pound cake and elder blow wine in the parlour. They -- " He peered at Frodo through his fringe. "They'd be happy as ducks in mud."
Frodo smiled. "Oddly enough, I guessed you might see it that way. Your single-minded attention to the study window has been hugely distracting, almost as distracting as the way in which you grasp the wooden pegs between your lips when you hang out my boiled linens. I hadn't planned to declare myself in the presence of a dwarven toy no matter what the provocation, but --" He pushed away from the table, seemingly at a loss for words although his tadger spoke volumes.
"You don't need toys, sir; you need a pair of willing hands and a --" Sam glanced at the Elves in the hope that Frodo could take a hint as easily as any other gentlehobbit. For a quiet moment they studied the toy together, the strain beginning to wear on Sam in spite of the evidences of his master's interest. What if Frodo were to send him home with a flea in his ear?
"Yes," said Frodo, at length, tucking the key into his pocket and getting up from his chair. "I had the same idea this morning when I saw you wading amongst the petunias with a tag end of binder twine peeking from your tool pouch. I left the window open on purpose." He was so close now that Sam could smell the honey soap he used to wash his hair, and the green scent of geranium oil, and the faint, sweet tang of pipeweed.
"Frodo Baggins!" said Sam, blushing pink as a gilliflower. "You're a tease."
"I've been told as much, my dearest Sam." He brushed Sam's heated cheek with a cool finger. "I won't pretend to know why the Gaffer has you tending the clematis with such fervour, but I'm not sorry. I've been wanting you to kiss me for ages. Would you mind awfully?"
"Oh," said Sam, "I'll do more than that. I'll -- " The words were stifled by the warmth of Frodo's tongue, and if it hadn't been for the uncomfortable constraint of the tool pouch Sam would have been content to stay forever with one hand on Frodo's horn buttons and the other snugged beneath his waistband. But once he had stepped back to undo the brass buckle, he was struck by the moist curve of his master's lips and the invitation of the partially unfastened placket behind which lay the instrument of his downfall. Daddy Twofoot had been correct about one thing -- the treasure Mr. Bilbo had brought home from unknown parts didn't leave Bag End when he vanished and would never leave if Sam had the guarding of it. "You'd fill the curve of my fingers like a ripe peach, but I want to --"
"Anything you wish," said Frodo, slipping a hand into his linen drawers as the final button lost its grip on the hole and the flushed head of his pestle peeped over the drawstring.
"Welterweight," mumbled Sam and dropped to the carpet, his eyes on the job as the Gaffer had instructed him. The fellows from the Inn might sneer at a gardener who diddled his master when he ought to be pinching out tomatoes, but the last thing on Sam's mind as he popped his mouth around Frodo's sugarplum was the satisfaction of anyone at The Ivy Bush. The Gaffer would never realise that his painstaking lessons on how to palm a Crimson Rocket were proving to be of use in the study at Bag End, but Frodo's admiration for the method knew no bounds if his squeaks and moans were any indication. And when Sam, who was keen to try his paces now that he had the measure of the thing, leaned forward and took Frodo in to the root, he was rewarded with a most gratifying 'Oh, Sam'. He was rewarded again less than a minute later, just as he had begun to investigate the neighbouring amenities, with a violent trembling of Frodo's knees which threatened to topple them arse over tea-kettle.
"Steady on, sir," he said, lowering Frodo to the floor before he caught his toes on the secateurs. "I'll have you there in a jiffy. We should save the other for the bedroom, if it's all the same, or you'll have rug burn on your backside."
He wasn't sure if he would be offered a chance in the bedroom, but Frodo's 'anything you wish' might be presumed to cover every eventuality including the remorseless stiffness at Sam's crutch. If he arrived home after the jam roly-poly had been served he would blame his tardiness on the fear of clematis wilt. That would put the wind up his dad's britches.
"Bugger the bedroom, Sam, I want -- "
Sam knew what his master wanted, but a Gamgee could play the teasing game as well as any Baggins. If he teased in the right place and the lad who was teased had come to his wits' end long ago, only one outcome was possible.
"Oh!" gasped Frodo and Sam swallowed neatly, with the self-confidence of a hobbit who could down a yard glass in five seconds.
They lay side by side for as long as it took Sam to count the volumes in the glass-fronted bookcase, and the walking sticks in the oliphaunt's foot umbrella stand, and the dust bunnies under the fender bench. If his hand found Frodo's somewhere between Rhymes in the Westfarthing Dialect and Modern Window Gardening neither of them remarked upon it. He was about to start all over again with Our Visitors and How to Amuse Them when Frodo spoke.
"My criticism of elven stamina was premature," he said. "I apologise. I trust we'll have more leisure to explore the next toy in the portmanteau. I would hate to let you down again, especially since–"
"Aye?" said Sam, who was desperate to be let down as soon as may be.
"It bears the label 'Ride a Cock-Horse to Brandywine Bridge'." Frodo sat up and reached for his drawers. "Needless to say, the name is self-explanatory. When the time comes, you'll want to fetch a bottle of oil from the larder so that we can–"
Sam tickled the niffnaffs which hovered within reach of his fingers, admiring the way that Frodo's knees parted and the colour rose on his cheeks.
"Now, Sam? Wouldn't you prefer a cup of tea and a plate of cream scones first? I don't know about you, but I'm perishing."
Sam shook his head. "T'ain't scones I'm after. I'd as soon have them later."
"Oh, very well," replied Frodo. "But I'd be grateful if you'd remove your hat."
"I'm sadly begone," said the Gaffer, scowling at the hobbits who had gathered to hear Sam's account of the treasure. "Not a whirligig nor a jack-in-the-box? Not even a penny whistle?"
"Naw," said Sam. He drew on a pipeful of Longbottom Leaf while his expectant audience watched Gaffer Gamgee with a caution normally reserved for a bull in the meadow. "A handful of troll's gold and a book of elven verse."
The Gaffer snorted and Old Noakes woke with a start, rubbing his eyes as if he had just climbed out of bed.
"A troll in Hobbiton?" he said. "Don't be daft."
Sandyman grunted his agreement.
"You're bamming me, lad." The Gaffer pointed in the direction of Hill Lane. "What was young Sancho seeking after in the pantry if not toys and suchlike stuff?"
"Aye," said Noakes, safe in the knowledge that the chimney-breast had withstood the weight of the Gaffer's insinuations on a former occasion. "Stands to reason."
Sam considered this argument for a moment, weighing the virtues of a clockwork toy against the edifying properties of Frodo's tireless rolling pin. He squirmed awkwardly on the oak settle, overcome all at once by an unaccountable yearning for ripe peaches.
"What indeed?" he answered.