Title: The Wanderlust of a Gamgee

Author Pen Name: Arwen Baggins

Disclaimer: No, I am not making a single penny off of this little story!

Prologue: Disturbers of the Peace

Setting: Hobbiton, Number Three Bagshot Row; September 22, 1418

Gaffer Gamgee was certainly not an unpleasant soul but when he heard a loud knock on the door, he muttered some words that were not even suitable for the ears of his own grown children. It wasn’t really a polite knock, more like a persisting racket fit to wake up the dead. "Open up if you value your skin!" came a low haunting voice. It would have scared any sensible Hobbit out of his wits, but Hamfast Gamgee was certainly not in a sensible mood tonight.

Giving a sigh of resignation, he picked up the Bag End keys from the table and went to answer the door. No doubt, it was that dratted Lotho Sackville-Baggins trying to scare him over nothing. Well, it wouldn’t work. A child, in his way of thinking though he was really 56 years old, would not get the best of him, gentry or no.

"Just you wait one second for these old bones, young sir!" the Gaffer called back. Boy did he hate having to call that spoiled, obnoxious brat "sir". Pity that he and Mr. Frodo were related. If their family names had been unknown, not a soul would ever have been able to guess – or believe – the truth about their being cousins. The Gaffer’s bones were stiff all right, but not so much as all of that. But the young ‘master’ didn’t know that and it would behoove him to respect the elderly. What could be the harm in teaching the youngster a belated lesson and at the same time slightly post-pone that which he had been dreading for months? None whatsoever.

The pounding became unbearably persistent until at last he stood before the door and reluctantly opened the door. "Now, here, then young sir. You just take these and –" He was about to relinquish the keys when he realized two things: One, the sale of Bag End did not take effect until dawn of the 23^rd and Second, this visitor was tall enough to block all light into the little smial.

Swallowing a lump in his suddenly dry throat, the Gaffer glanced up hesitantly at the hooded figure in his doorway. All dressed in black he was, as if he was on his way to a funeral. Now a Man dressed in black was nothing to be overly afraid of under normal circumstances. But these were not normal conditions, if the sword at his belt and the tone of his voice were any indication.

"Baggins!" the Man hissed impatiently through his teeth. The barely intelligible whisper came out as more of a demand than a question.

Of all the nerve! No greeting! Not a "Hullo, how’d ya do, Mr. Hobbit?" or "Might it be too much trouble to ask for a cup of tea?" Such manners had never been heard of. Why even the hated Lobelia had the courtesy to pretend interested in the goings-on of her neighbors.

"No, Mr. Baggins has gone away. Went this morning, and my Sam went with him: away all his stuff went." Why he felt the need to add that last part about Sam, he couldn’tcould not rightly say, except that he felt that the more he told the sooner the stranger would leave. He was right queer: stranger than any lot from Buckland he’d heard tell of by Mr. Frodo and his cousins. It would not have been near as intimidating if the Man had had the courtesy to remove the hood of his cloak. A Man, who would not show his face to the person he was calling on, was not entitled to the same respect given to the rest of the population.

"He sold his home?" The stranger seemed slightly alarmed at this information, if that was even possible.

"Yes, sold out and gone, I tell’ee."

"Why did Baggins go?"

The Gaffer gulped and took a step back. If he could just step far enough away to get out of the Man’s shadow, that ought to give him some breathing room. "Why’s none of my business, or yours," he replied with all of the defiance he could muster. Who did this Man think he was that he had to know all about Mr. Frodo’s business? It weren’t none of his concern no-how.

"Where is he? Where did Baggins go?" the Man hissed again. To the naked eye he appeared just like any normal foreign Man would – or at least what the Gaffer assumed any normal foreign man would look like based on his lack of expertise. Nothing that Hamfast could see accounted for the tremors that ran up his small body. The sound of his raspy voice was cold and hostile for sure, but nothing that accounted for such fear.

"Where to? That ain’t no secret. He’s moved to Buckleberry or some such placed down yonder."

"Is this place far from here?" the stranger continued in that same hollow voice. Fiddlesticks! Why couldn’t he not just speak like a normal person for a change?

"Yes it is – a tidy way. I’ve never been so far myself: they’re a queer lot in Buckland." But ain’t no one so queer as the likes of you! Not that he would ever have the nerve to say such a thing aloud. The mind was a place for one’s private thoughts, and there that would stay lest he say something out of place which he would sorely regret.

"Will you give a message to him?”

"No, I can’t give no message. I told’ee before, sir. I ain’t never been there myself."

The stranger made a strangled grunting noise before kicking his horse off into a gallop.

"Hmph!" The Gaffer stared off with a suspicious scowl before turning his heels and walking back to his smial. Men in The Shire! What was Middle earth coming to anyway? Right queer it was. He would be the happiest hobbit in The Shire if he never set his eyes on them again.

*************

There was nothing in Middle earth quite like a lovely feather pillow. So nice and soft it practically begged you to come to bed at night and to stay there in the morning. Which This was precisely why the Gaffer tried to pull it down over his ears to block out the sound of the doorknocker intruding upon his precious sleep. Good gracious! Lobelia had waited 70 years for the key to Bag End, was it so much to ask her to wait until a decent hour? The Gaffer hadn’t been too keen on the idea safe-guarding the key. But However, when Mr. Frodo had said there wasn’t was not a more trustworthy soul residing on Bagshot Row, he hadn’t had not the nerve to politely turn-downturn down politely his master’s request. And it was indeed a request, just one which he felt obligated to accept at the time. Nevertheless, propriety was not in his dictionary as he heard Lobelia’s demanding curses from behind the think door.

"Hamfast Gamgee! You open this door right now or I’ll call the Shirriff!" he heard the shrill voice scream again. Not that there was much to be heard over the pounding.

Hamfast yawned and shook his head as Lobelia continued to rant.

"Don’t make me come in there! I’ll tear this door down if you don’t give me what is mine! I can have you arrested for thievery!"

Rolling his eyes and mumbling under his breath, he grabbed his coat and went for the door. She did have a point, much as he hated to admit it. The deed signed by herself and Mr. Frodo stated that Bag End would be hers promptly at midnight of the 23^rd of September. Midnight was nigh upon them, either that or just around the bend. He couldn’t tell, not with the blinds closed and he hadn’t dared to open them for fear that she would notice and show her ugly face but now he had no choice. The Shirriff would see the reason behind Hamfast’s side since no decent soul intruded upon another before the cock crowed unless it be an emergency of some kind. However, Hamfast had never known Lobelia to be decent in any sense of the word. But decency was not in question: it was the law. The deed said it was hers and he for one had no intention of going before the mayor or the sheriff over a matter of a few petty hours. The Shirriffs had to deal with Lobelia’s ludicrous complaints far more than he did and he felt obligated to spare poor Robin Smallburrow from the venomous tongue and twisted mind of the S.B.s at this time of night – or day which ever one it was. Bracing himself for a verbal whip lashing, Hamfast reluctantly turned the brass key in its hole and opened the door.

From the looks for of Lobelia S.B.., you would have thought it to be high noon, not pre-dawn. "Well, Gaffer, have you got it? I haven’t got all day!"

Hamfast peered from behind her. "Quite to the contrary, Mistress Lobelia. You have indeed the whole day, for it has not yet begun."

He attempted in vain to hide the smile that crept up the corner of his mouth at the look of her red face, which looked nigh on ready to explode with indignation.

"One moment, Ma’am," he said bowing politely before shutting the door in her face and locking it once more. Hamfast remembered perfectly well the number of times Bilbo claimed Lobelia had stolen his things from Bag End. He doubted that there was anything in his own smial that would be considered of any worth to her: but better safe than sorry since the Gamgees had precious little to part with. He had the key in his pocket all right, but not the one to the backdoor. He took his sweet time finding the key that was right under his nose, all the while trying to ignore the sound of Lobelia’s threat. The most obnoxious of them being, "You better not’ve been plundering my home, you good for nothing gardener or I’ll call the Shirriff if even a single spoon is missing!" What was it with her and spoons anyway? And from listening to her ceaseless ranting one would have thought that the sheriffs were her dearest friends, when in truth everyone knew that they couldn’t could not stand the sight of her. Besides that, only the greatest fool would attempt to steal from Bag End. Honestly, of all the nerve.

Having found the key, Hamfast reopened the door and shoved it into her cold hand before turning his heel, locking the door and heading back to the comfort of his warm blankets, without even so much as a "g’night". Not that Lobelia cared any about that last bit. She immediately began occupying herself with triple-checking her inventory list. When she had done so earlier in the day in the presence of Frodo and his impetuous cousins, everything had been accounting for. But the Valar only knew what little remained after having been at the "disposal" of the poorer folk such as the Gamgees. Honestly! She knew Frodo Baggins had been raised by the wild lot in Buckland along the despicable river – but could he really be all that stupid? Lobelia shook her head. No time to think about that. It was hers at last – hers and Lotho’s anyway. Her dear boy was on his way with the last cartload, and then the fun could begin at long last.

NOTE TO READERS! This chapter will look very familiar because it is the original first chapter. I added in a prologue. So what used to be chapter 1 still is, it’s just that now it’s the second listed chapter. The real “update” is in the next chapter. But please go back and read the prologue first! I really like it!

"Mr. Bilbo has learned Sam his letters - meaning no harm, mark you, and I hope no harm will come of it."

Hamfast Gamgee, The Fellowship of the Ring, A Long Expected Party

Chapter One: an An Unexpected Visitor

Setting: Hobbiton, Number Three Bagshot Row; September 29, 1418

It was a bleak night, and no mistake, the clouds had descended upon Hobbiton and had thus proceeded to dump their wet cargo all over the surrounding flora, flooding the flower beds which Hamfast Gamgee had toiled over for many a long day. Which This was why the most respected gardener in the West Farthing was sitting in his chair with his back to the window, savoring a tater and mushroom stew, for he knew that it would likely be the last until the new year. Unless he could work a miracle on the stubborn soil of Bagshot Row. That though, was not the only reason why he refused to look outside. For if he did, he would be forced to face his new neighbors: the Sackville-Bagginses. That would have to be done eventually, there was nothing else for it, but in this case it was best done later rather than sooner, or so he liked to think. The very thought of it put a sour taste in his mouth and, for a moment, he wondered if he had put too much parsley in his stew. It had been bad enough having to look at them when they came to the door demanding the key that Mr. Frodo had entrusted to his care. The thought of the inevitability of having to face them on a day-to-day basis was unbearable.

The Gaffer, illiterate though he was, was no simpleton. He understood rightly enough that Mr. Frodo would want to return to the village of his upbringing, namely Crickhollow, away there in Buckland. He had been somewhat surprised when his youngest son had been so eager to follow his master off to the other end of The Shire. Sure Samwise had always professed to wanting an adventure to see Elves, but this was going off to Buckland, a part of The Shire which was reputedly very dangerous, being on the edge of the Old Forest and all. Anyone who knew Sam knew that he had dreamed of adventures (with or without Elves) for so many years and such a proposition of moving to Buckland would not have amazed them. But Hamfast, being the practical, literally down to Middle earth, Hobbit that he was, had never taken his son's dreams of far-off adventures seriously by any stretch of the imagination. After all, that's that was just what it was – "wishful" thinking. But being that Sam was Mr. Frodo's servant; the Gaffer couldn't find it within himself to call his son a ninnyhammer on this occasion. So Mr. Frodo and Sam had moved to Buckland.

Well that was all fine and dandy, as the saying goes, but of all the ridiculous things to do, why did Mr. Frodo have to sell his beautiful home to them?! Everyone knew that Lobelia and Lotho had too much ego for their own good. That had been true for at least the past 30 years, and it had continued to snowball out of proportion ever since Frodo and Lobelia had signed the sale of Bag End a few months prior. It would no doubt continue to grow from here on out, and it was this fact that made him want to postpone leaving his smial in the morning for as long as possible, which just wasn't natural for a Hobbit who not-too-long ago had greeted the sun every morning with unrivaled enthusiasm for the new beginning that she brought with her from all over those foreign lands that his son was so naively enthusiastic for.

Hamfast sat there, staring at his stew and picking at the mushrooms with a sudden melancholy. He had never really liked Elves because they had seemed to drag his son away from both him and the work that needed to be done. But now he really didn't like them. After all, it was they (or rather the thought of them) who had taken his son away from him. Not just any son, his youngest son and the one it had seemed would care for him in his old age, the other two had left: Hamson to the North Farthing and Halfred to Tighfield. But not anymore - unless of course Sam got it through his thick head to summon an eagle and fly to Bagshot Row every week. Not much chance of that. Though he supposed he couldn'tcould not entirely blame the Elves, as none of them had been in The Shire (well at least none that Sam had seen. Though everyone knew that the cracking Frodo Baggins had gone off in search of Elves in The Shire on numerous occasions with reported as success, though none others had been there to vouch for his honesty). No the real culprits behind Sam's wanderlust were Old Mr. Bilbo and the conjuring "wizard" Gandalf.

Hamfast had never truly minded Old Bilbo teaching his son to read and write, that had actually proven to be a valuable commodity, but this adventuring to see fabled Elves was another matter entirely. No, Hamfast decided muttering under his breath, the wizard was the one who was really to blame and he found that he was very grateful that the meddlesome Disturber of the Peace was no where to be found, for he realized that his attitude might be enough to get himself transformed into a toad if the old man really could accomplish such a feat, which he doubted.

As he was sitting there, brooding over his recent misfortunes, he heard a rather hard knock on his front door. Wondering who would possibly be out and about in this weather, the Gaffer's sense of duty and curiosity propelled him to open the door. For a full minute, the Gaffer stood dumfounded, his eyes bulging from their sockets and his jaw hanging down a few large centimeters. There stood the subject of his grievances, one of the few that he knew of who was required to stoop down to be look at his would-be host in the eye. Once again, Gandalf the Grey had arrived when least expected.

Chapter Two: Ignorance is Bliss

Gandalf at the Council of Elrond, "…I had words with old Gamgee. Many words, and few to the point."

Setting: Immediately following Chapter One

Gaffer Gamgee could hardly believe his good fortune. The troublemaker was right at his doorstep and no doubt wanting some answers, as did the Gaffer. This could work out just splendidly for the both of them.

"Well, well, Mr. Gandalf, is it? Come on in before you catch yourself a chill, sir." The Gaffer may not have liked the "conjurer" one bit, but that did not mean it was wise to make an enemy out of the only person you knew who was twice your height. Not to mention, there was his sense of propriety to think of. Folk thought it was right queer enough that the second Mad Baggins, who was many years his junior, was also his master. No need to give them top-quality gossip about his character.

Gandalf graciously accepted the invitation and ducked his head into the narrow doorway, suddenly finding that he missed Bag End’s high ceiling. That smial didn’tdid not have the best headroom in Middle Earth, but it had some and that was a vast improvement over Number Three, Bagshot Row.

The Gaffer, noticing the trouble his guest was having, led the wizard to his hearth, the lowest section of the hole with the highest roof. He hoped his guest would fit in there more comfortably as it was the best he could offer. Meanwhile, he hurried to find in his pantries what he knew were Gandalf’s favorite Hobbit-foods: tea and seedcake. It never ceased to amaze him how such an enormous person could eat so little. Once both guest and host had settled themselves down comfortable by the hearth, the Gaffer lost no time in listing his grievances toward his new neighbors, now that he had an audience to listen to his life’s downfalls.

"Can’t abide it," he was saying as he finished his fourth seedcake. "Of all the Baggins’ why did Mr. Frodo sell his lovely home to Lobelia and Lotho? I know it ain’t my place to question the Master’s judgment," he rambled on before Gandalf even had a chance to answer, "but surely they could have lived in Hardbottle with the rest of their relations, those two were always more Sackvilles and Bracegirdles than Baggins’ at any rate. In fact, Lobelia isn’t a Baggins at all. And Lotho only half of one. Otho, though, being born a respectable Baggins as the son of Mr. Bilbo’s brother, Longo, was the only civil one among his family. Though, his mother was a Sackville: Miss Camillia Sackville. That certainly did nothing to improve ‘is character. Can’t understand why he settled for a wife like Lobelia. Wasn’t like he was marrying for the money. That was her motivation. He was the one set up to be Mr. Bilbo’s heir before Frodo’s adoption."

Gandalf nodded thoughtfully. Yes that was certainly true. He couldn’t quite follow all of the intricate details of Hobbit genealogy, but he had heard that same argument before and wouldn’t dream of contradicting what he had heard from Bilbo’s own mouth a time or two. "Tell me, Master Gamgee, when did Frodo leave?"

"Why, just a week ago, on his birthday as planned."

If the Gaffer noticed how Gandalf managed to choke on his tea and biscuits right at that moment, he did a good job of hiding it. On his birthday? As planned? But what about Barli Butterbur? And the letter? I’ll melt all of the butter and fat out of him when I get my hands around that thick little neck, of all the nerve! He had given Barli the letter on Midyear’s Day with a promise that it would be sent to The Shire the next day. And that was three months ago! A letter that had warned Frodo to get out of The Shire before the end of July.

Gaffer Gamgee, unaware of the discomfort that his words had had upon his guest, kept rambling on; , "Mr. Frodo kept waiting for you all day. Kept saying that Gandalf would come, Gandalf won’t break a promise; he said he’d be here. He even said something about It being important. Now, what exactly this It was, he wouldn’t say. But he was out of his wits all day and no mistake. I can’t abide changes," the Gaffer grumbled, taking a seat again. "Not at my time of life, and least ways not changes for the worst."

"Worst is a bad word. And I hope you don’t do not live to see it," Gandalf concluded aloud before silently adding, And if you do then my work and that of the Dunadan has been all for naught.

"What could be worse than my Sam leaving me and the Sackville Bagginses getting their hands on Bag End and all of those riches. Who knows what they will do with it? We’re headin’ for trouble, mark my words. There ain’t nothin’ good that ever came about with them S.B.s around. No, sir’ee. No good t’all. Sam’s leaving is bad enough. But why is it that they have to come right when he leaves?" Hamfast put his chin in his hands and went off rambling and mumbling to himself all over again.

Gandalf, having been victim to the wrath and suspicion of the S.B.s could not quite disagree with that. Though he doubted that Lobelia and Lotho were even potential threats to the Shire. Nuisances perhaps. But not dangerous ones. "Can’t imagine any good coming from them," Gandalf heartily agreed, sipping his tea. "No good at all."

Hamfast Gamgee, sat in his small armchair, and eyed the visitor with hopefully veiled contempt. There he was, reclining without a care in the world. As if he were innocent! Of all the nerve, there wasn’t a more guilty soul. Lotho, nasty as he had been to poor Mr. Frodo in their youth, had not dragged him off to danger. "Why, Gandalf? Why did you take my Sam?" he mumbled, staring blankly into his teacup.

Gandalf raised an eyebrow at his small host. He had known, even before coming here, that the Gaffer would have misgivings about his son leaving Hobbiton, but it hadn’t occurred to him that he would be blamed. He took no one against their his will. Bilbo had agreed, albeit a bit reluctantly to join the Dwarves on their adventure to the Lonely Mountain. He had not been dragged away in chains. Frodo was the only one who could qualify as an exception. He had agreed, even though he had likely done so from lack of choice. The Ring’s location was safest if kept secret. He couldn’t very well auction it off to the nearest taker. For one thing, there probably would not be any. Frodo was as adventurous as Hobbits came, if Bilbo’s failing memory – and his own brief visits with the boy - were any indication. He could have lost his temper at the Hobbit for such an accusation, but he kept his temper in check. Unlike Bilbo, the Gaffer had never before witnessed Gandalf’s power and there was no need to frighten the poor Hobbit half to death. For one thing he wouldn’t be able to face Bilbo if he did. But intimidation was another matter entirely.

"Gaffer," he began slowly, keeping his eyes level and his voice cool. "What makes you think that I took you son away?"

"Isn’t it obvious?" the Gaffer replied indignantly. "He’s going off with Mr. Frodo, ain’t he? And you sent Mr. Frodo off!"

"Did it ever occur to you, that perhaps your son has acted on his own will?" Gandalf made a point of keeping their eyes locked.

Hamfast nodded, quickly looking the other way. "Aye, but it was you as put them fool adventures in his head. Hobbits ain’t meant to be out of the Shire, sir, and that’s a fact!"

Gandalf, realizing that intimidation was perhaps the wrong course to take with this one, let a small smile creep over his face as a soft sincerity entered his voice. "Hamfast, it was never my intention to bring Samwise into this! But, be that as it may, he was doing his work out under the windowsill at the time and overheard our plans. He then insisted upon coming along to make certain that his master took care of himself. He did it not for the adventures, but for the sake and safety of his master, as a true servant and friend. You should be proud of him." He made certain not to mention that Sam was eavesdropping. Besides, he knew the Gaffer would never believe it. When he looked up, it was to a stunned and gaping old Hobbit. "Now," he began anew, having nothing further to say on the issue, "I am going to go help your son." He got up to leave, but noticed the hesitancy of a Hobbit’s stutter, as if the Gaffer meant to tell him something. "Yes?"

"You, ought to know sir, before you go, that were some mighty queer folks as spoke with me earlier that day. Couldn’t quite get a look at them, not with those black hoods pulled down over their eyes. And I wasn’t fool enough to get nigh them big black ponies. They –"

But he never finished his sentence. Gandalf was already out of the room and heading out through the small round door, which he banged his head on before ducking out into the rainy night. The Gaffer stood at the doorway and watched his visitor ride off into the night. He had been trying to work up the courage to ask him about the stranger all night, but when it came down to it, he had decided that under these circumstances, ignorance was bliss.

~To Be Continued~ And, yes, I really do mean that! So, any suggestions on which story I work on next?

Chapter Three: And Whither Then? I Can Not Say

Tongues began to wag in Hobbiton and Bywater; and rumour…travelled all over the Shire. The history and character of Mr. Bilbo Baggins became once again the chief topic of conversation. – The Fellowship of the Ring, A Long-Expected Party

Setting: Hobbiton, the Green Dragon; October 3, 1418

It had been a few days since Gandalf’s visit; a few days in which the Gaffer had been able to wallow in misery as he reflected on his conversation with Gandalf.  He came up with several possible scenarios about what that Black Man could have been there for. None of them, of course, were any good.  Finally, enough had been enough, and his son-in-law, Tom Cotton Jr. had insisted that he visit the Green Dragon for a good ale: something to clear his mind. So there he was, reclining as though he was in the comfort of his own home. But the bartender didn’t mind, so long as the coins kept coming his way. And come they would, so long as he had the best storyteller – or gossiper, depending on how you looked at it – to rely a first hand account of the mysterious Black Man. It was all they wanted to hear about and many were willing to pay a pretty pence to hear it straight from the source.

 “Did he say what he wanted?” Sandyman inquired. “I’ll bet you he was after old Bilbo’s foreign gold! He always was an old fool to leave for lands over yonder. I’ve always said it would lead him into trouble and it looks like I was right!”

The Gaffer shook his head. “I’ve said it many a time before, Mr. Sandyman, there ain’t no hidden gold in Bag End. It weren’t on Mr. Bilbo’s pony when he came back 77 years ago and he sure didn’t find any here in the Shire. Besides,” he continued before a word could be offered to the contrary, “if it was gold he wanted, he would ‘ave knocked me aside and had his way. No, he was after a Baggins – not the gold.”

“But what could he have wanted with Frodo Baggins?” Hamfast did not need to look up to recognize the voice of Old Daddy Twofoot. The old hobbit had been rather fond of Frodo despite his oddities as a born and bred – downright queer – Bucklander. He had always been one of the few to insist that Frodo had far more sense than most of the local folk gave him credit for.

The whole bar fell quite. The Gaffer hadn’t quite realized what a vast audience he had until then. Now that was the question. Everyone in the Shire was convinced that Old Bilbo had been cracked for years before he finally had his memorable farewell.  But there had appeared to be a glimmer of hope that Frodo would lead a somewhat ordinary life in his later years. He had never been out of the Shire before to anyone’s knowledge, though he had taken to wandering about the woods in search of Elves.  What had convinced everyone of his sanity – and therefore, lack of wanderlust as well - was that he had had plenty of opportunity to leave, but had not taken it. Some had said that he was bidding his time – and now it would appear that they had been right all along. That still, though, did not answer the question of what the Men wanted with Mr. Frodo. If he had never been beyond the Shire, then how could he have gotten into trouble with them?

No one in the room spoke. But the Gaffer knew it would never last. Tongues would begin to wag once they loosened up and their owners found their misplaced voices. There was one thing, though, that no one knew about. That was Gandalf’s visit. Hamfast knew what would happen then, if anyone ever did learn about that. The wizard would never be trusted again. If he could convince a Gamgee to leave the safety of the Shire, then there really must be something to his “magic” and no one would be able to stand the sight of the wizard’s face. The Gaffer for one, had no real desire to see the old Conjurer (or whatever he was) again, but he had said that night that he was going to help Sam. Help with what the Gaffer couldn’t rightly imagine, but if Gandalf was up to something good, then the Gaffer had the sense not to send the entire Shire population after him for trickery. No, Gandalf’s involvement had better be kept secret for as long as possible.

“Can’t say that I know. He might’ve been wanting old Mr. Bilbo, not knowing that Mr. Frodo was in charge of the place.” That was as good a guess as any had and he knew they would never buy it. But for the life of him, he couldn’t think of any other likely scenario.

“But Mr. Bilbo’s dead, he’s got to be. He’d be nigh on 130 now. And there’s only one other Hobbit who’s lived that long. Surely Men know that Hobbit’s don’t have Elvish immortality. Not even the Baggins’.” There was a murmur of approval. Even the Gaffer’s superior, first-hand knowledge, would not take precedence over Sandyman’s – for once – undeniable common sense.

If the folk had thought they would be getting answers from Hamfast that afternoon, they were sorely mistaken. They knew about as much as he did. Well, in the case of the Black Rider, they knew everything. Gandalf hadn’t exactly said who they were. As soon as he had mentioned them, he had made a run for it: that in and of itself was unusual. He had never seen a wizard panic before. It had always been said that there was a first time for everything. Well now he believed it. Men in the Shire and a panicky wizard!  If the absurdities kept up, the King would come back escorting his Sam!  The Gaffer just rolled his eyes. No, that would never happen. Not while the Third Age lasted.

“What do you make of the attack, Gaffer?” It was a new voice that now intervened: new, but not unfamiliar. The whole crowed forcibly withheld their groans. One would think that by now Lotho Sackville-Baggins would know when he was not wanted, and they would be wrong.

The Gaffer abruptly snapped out of his reverie. “What attack, sir?” He added this last almost as an afterthought.  Strange as things had been in the past few days, one thing that had not happened, was an attack. Or at least, that’s what he had thought. Besides, he wasn’t sure if he believed it.

“The one on Frodo’s home in Buckland, of course!”

Now he certainly did not believe it. Lotho had never been one to associate with the Brandybucks of Buckland. Quite the contrary, he had spent most of his childhood making Mr. Frodo’s life miserable just because of birth-place. He had once said that no one could pay him to associate with “the River Folk” as he liked to call them simply to grate on young Frodo’s nerves.

“I was over in the East Farthing not 2 days ago on business,” Lotho continued.  “The Master was in quite a sullen mood and when I inquired he said that his son had vanished with that fool cousin of mine and that the house had been broken down and ransacked. You mean you haven’t heard of it?”

The Gaffer slowly shook his head. Well he would believe that money had taken Lotho over Buckland way, certainly nothing else ever would.  “No, I’ve been keepin’ inside lately,” he answered quietly.  He was not about to mention that he had been avoiding his former master’s kin.

“Well, I heard – mind you, straight from the Master himself! - that Fredegar Bolger, one of Frodo’s fool friends, was covering up for him at the cottage. But then some Black folk came but before they could get there, Fredegar ran to the nearest home and fell on the floor screaming that he didn’t have it. No one could get any sense out of him and when he finally calmed down he refused to talk. The Master himself went to the house and found it ransacked. Some other Hobbits saw the Black Folks too, but no one stayed around long enough to get a good look at them.”

“What about my Sam?” The Gaffer had enough sense to know that Lotho wouldn’t give a care about a lowly gardener’s son, but it was worth a try at any rate.

“Now that’s the tricky part. No one knows where they are. Fredegar wouldn’t say. Just that he was sworn to silence until they got back and he wouldn’t say when that was supposed to be.”

“Strange as news from Bree, that’s what it is,” Sandyman mumbled, taking another swig of his ale. He was starting to look a little tipsy and the Gaffer was going to have to split soon. A conversation about Mr. Frodo with one of them S.B.s and a slightly drunk Sandyman, never made for a good combination.

It rarely happened that the audience knew more than the story teller, but that appeared to be the case.  “But my Sam,” the Gaffer all but stuttered to no one in particular, unwilling to give up straight away. “What’s happened to my Sam-lad? Surely someone must’ve seen ‘im an’ the others! Hobbits don’t just…” He had been about to say that ‘Hobbits don’t just disappear’, but he had seen evidence to contrary with his own eyes while waiting on the tables at the Farewell Party that was already becoming a legend amongst they youngsters.

“No one knows, Gaffer,” the despicable Sackville-Baggins continued with nonchalant tone. The Master’s wife remembers hearing her son and nephew speaking about Rivendell, wondering what the weather was like there. She thinks that’s where they may have gone. But where that is no one rightly knows, probably nothin’ more than a fairy-tale place Old Bilbo made up and the kid swallowed the story: rick, cot and tree!They could be anywhere, Master Gamgee!” He added this last with a sarcastic tone and a cheeky grin before tipping his hat. He then threw a few coins at the bartender before swaggering out of the pub.  He had not said it, but everyone present had learned to read what was not said when the Sackville-Bagginses were involved. He had no idea where Frodo and his companions were and they could starve in the wild for all he cared. As long Bag End remained his, he didn’t give a rip about what happened to that lot of fools.

Hamfast Gamgee had been able to hold his ale amongst large crowds and through several drinking games for many a’ year.  But this was the last straw. All he was aware of was, well nothing. His mind had gone numb and he was barely aware of several panicked voices and breaking glasses before a sharp pain grabbed his head and he knew no more.

* To Be Continued *