The Lark and the Lost Key

-A Tale of the Old Took-

These were the heavy hours of summer, late in the day when the sun still lingered over the hills to the west like a guest overstaying his welcome. It was too hot even for a pipe, which is saying something in the Shire.  Crops were left to their own devices.  The stock settled low in the meadows.  Even the children retreated beneath the trees to wait for dusk.

These were the hours when Mrs. Bungo Baggins found the design of hobbit holes most wanting, even one as magnificent as Bag End.  They simply resisted all drafts.  The doors and windows might be thrown wide, but with them all on one side and the hill on the other, the air refused any invitation to enter.  It sat out there like a stubborn child while she stood before the window, just out of reach of the light, wondering how one could store a barrelful of snow for use in summer. 

A hat flashed past her, moving so quickly she thought it might have been a mirage.  A moment later feet and stick thudded in her foyer without so much as a hello.  She hurried down the hall to find her father dabbing his brow with a handkerchief.

“You shouldn’t be out in this heat,” she said. “At least you shouldn’t be rushing.”

“I wasn’t rushing, Bella,” the Old Took said, “I was eluding. One of your neighbors, Mr. Brownlock, has been pestering me about some business, and having nothing to report and no wish to be further pestered, I took a less direct way to your door. From the side of the Hill instead of up the road.” 

As Thain of the Shire, Gerontius Took was in charge of defense.  Because the Shire was endangered only by the stray bear, fox or wolf, and these were handled by the Bounders, he had no real duties except for maintaining his dignity and, thus, the dignity of his fellow hobbits. In practice, though, he was seen has having more authority than the Mayor, perhaps because his home was more centrally located than the Mayor’s. Being more easily found, he was just that.  All the time.  An afternoon walk, a stroll to the tavern, a pipe on his porch, no moment of peace allowed him to escape someone’s pleading.  He was glad hobbits had little spirit to travel by night. Otherwise, he’d never get any sleep.

Bella said, “I’m afraid I agree with Mr. Brownlock.  We do need steet lamps on the road leading up to Bagshot Row. One trip in the dark and you could tumble all the way to the mill.” 

“Then get yourself some lanterns, some oil, and some children to line the road.” The Old Took’s cheeks grew redder. “Speaking of children—” he tapped his walking stick on the floor—“where is my grandson?”

Bella, chastened, took him by the harm.  “He’s in the pantry. Come, and I’ll get you a mug of water while you speak with him.”

“Why shouldn’t the boy come to me?” he said gruffly. He had been feeling very Tookish, as they say, having gotten past Brownlock, and now his daughter’s comments had made him feel very Thainish.

“Because he’s on guard.”  She led him through the hole.

“Against what, maggots storming the hams?  An invasion of mold?”

“No.  Goblins. He’s taken it into his head that there’s a secret door in the back wall of the pantry that goblins might sneak through.”

Bella saw her father’s original mood return.  She thought it was because this sort of imagination pleased him.  He saw her think this and didn’t disabuse her.

She pointed him into the pantry and went to get the water.  The Old Took found Bilbo, twelve-years-old and so scrawny he might be mistaken for goblin himself, sitting on a stool and staring at the back wall.  The Old Took leaned over his shoulder and stared with him.

“I just don’t see how it could be opened,” Bilbo said without moving his gaze.  “I’ve been all over it.  I’ve pushed the knot holes.  I’ve run a blade along every crack.  Nothing works.”

“How do you know there’s a door?” the Old Took asked.

“I saw it in my dream.  The door opened out of the wall.  Then the goblins poured in.”

“And what did the goblins do?”  The Old Took was angry at himself as soon as he asked the question.  He knew exactly what goblins did in a twelve-year-old boy’s mind when they snuck into his house.  Bilbo’s grimness indicated he was correct.

The Old Took put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.  “And you’re making sure they don’t get in again.” 

Bilbo nodded.

“Well, there’s a solution right at hand. And doesn’t require such vigilence.”

Bilbo brightened some.  “What’s that?”

The Old Took went to the back wall of the pantry.  He ran his palm over the wood.  For a moment he also considered whether the catch to secret door was woven into the grains and seams of the panelling.  Then he pointed to the crates and sacks piled against the wall.  “Help me move these.”

Bilbo stood up.  “Why?”

Bella came in with two glasses of water.  “Why what?”

“Nothing. I was just telling the boy about goblins.”  He took the mugs, gave one to Bilbo and went on, “Because their mothers never bring them water, that’s why they’re such miserable crumbs.  They have to fight each other for it instead.”

Bella squinted slightly.  “Don’t scare him, Papa.  Old tales seem like very recent news to young boys.”

The Old Took looked at her in mock sterness and put his arm around his grandson.  “I think we can handle any goblins that get in here.  Isn’t that right, Bo?”

Bilbo, comforted by his grandfather’s arm and by a stance of mutual defiance against his mother, nodded.

Bella squint increased a little.  “I’ll leave you two alone then.”

The Old Took closed the pantry door behind her.  “Quickly.  There’s no reason these crates and sacks have to be here when we could put those shelves against the back wall instead.  Nothing stops a door like full shelves.”

Bilbo beamed at his grandfather’s brilliance. To him the pantry was stable.  Different stuff might go in and out, but how it was arranged never changed.  It wasn’t kept this way by his parents.  It was how the world was ordered.  That is where the shelves were . That is where the little table was.  That is where you put the potatoes. To move the shelves, that could mean—and this may have been the biggest idea the young hobbit had ever had—that could mean anything could be moved or changed.  Bilbo was invigorated.

Sacks and crates were slid aside.  The shelves were unloaded and walked across the floor.  The room was reassembled. Grandfather and grandson looked at their work.  The goblins were forgotten. Now it seemed like a huge trick played on his mother.  He couldn’t wait to see her face.

The Old Took said, “We shouldn’t linger.  Let her discover it in her own time. Besides I came here because I have a job for you.”

To have commanded so much time and humor from his grandfather was a rare thing.  He was “a busy man,” and he had so many other grandchildren.  Now there was a responsibility?  Bilbo had woken up terrified.  The day was turning out far better than he had imagined.

The Old Took said, “I need your for a lark.”

“What’s that?"

“More than a walk.  Not quite a mission.  Certainly short of an adventure.  But let’s just tell your mother I want to walk and require a companion.  We shouldn’t lie to your mother, should we?”

Bilbo said, “No, sir.”

“Besides, she’s a Took.  She knows we’re up to something.  Even if she didn’t know, she’d assume it.  The trick is making her think we’re up to something different than what we’re actually up to.”  The Old Took opened the pantry door.  “As to what that is, I’ll explain on the way.”

#

They headed west away from the Hill over the lawns and between the fields, several times turning and waving.  Bella watched them until she heard Mr. Brownlock coming up the walk from Bagshot Row.  She ducked inside and pressed the front door closed.  He had been pestering her too, hoping she’d put in a word with her father.

#

When the Hill had vanished behind some trees and those trees had vanished behind many more, the Old Took stopped and said, “Hold on.  We’ve forgotten your stick.”

Bilbo laughed.  “I’m not old, Papa.  I don’t need a stick.”

The Old Took pointed his stick at him.  “A stick is for more than walking, Bo.  What if you need to pull something from a bush?  What if you need to scratch your back?”  The Old Took flipped the stick around and scratched himself dramatically, which made Bilbo laugh again.  He looked up, focused on something and said, “What if—” the Old Took thrust his stick up into the branches of a tree—“what if you need to knock loose a perfect early apple?”  His wrist flicked, Bilbo heard a rustle, and an apple with swirls of pink and red dropped into his grandfather’s waiting hand. 

The Old Took handed Bilbo his stick and pulled a small knife from his waistcoat.  He deftly carved the apple into two pieces and handed one to Bilbo.  “A hobbit needs just two tools.  A stick and his knife.  Everything else is leftovers.”  He held up his piece of apple.  “To sticks.”

“And knives,” Bilbo said, raising his half.  They bit and chewed and slurped. The apple was crisp and sweet.

“Now,” the Old Took said, “since I have the knife, you should keep the stick and together we are one well-equipped hobbit.”

This made them both very happy.  Then again, sticks and knives were all very well, but what hobbits really needed most were fresh, delicious apples.

They turned north and walked some more.  They finished their apples, then feasted on the memory of eating the apples.  Bilbo held the stick like a staff, it being nearly as tall as he was, and imagined they sounded like a five-footed horse.  After a while all noise from the Hill, the surrounding farms and the Water had disappeared.  And the sun finally reached the top of the hills.  The woods thickened with shadows.

“Is this Bindbale Wood?” Bilbo asked.

“What do you know of Bindbale Wood?”

“Nothing,” Bilbo admitted, “except where it is.  I saw it on a map. I thought we were going to Rushock Bog or maybe Needlehole until we started north.”

The Old Took nodded, impressed.  “No, that’s a good deal farther on.  We’re almost to where we’re going to go.”

“Where’s that?” 

“First I have to tell you a story.  It’s about a goblin.”  He picked up his pace.  “In the Shire.”

The Old Took looked down at the boy to see if he were scared or fell back.  This would be the moment to turn around if so.  But the boy matched his pace and planted his stick with determination.  Their plan in the pantry seemed to have done its work.  Once you faced an enemy, he thought, the second time was routine.

“Many years ago, you might not have been born yet, some farmers west of The Hill complained about their chickens being stolen.  One even lost a pig.  They asked me to investigate.  I said, ‘It’s a fox, maybe a wolf, set out some traps.  Or speak with the Bounders and they’ll set out some traps.  In any case, my mutton’s getting cold.’”

That was one of the Old Took’s favorite expressions, my mutton’s getting cold.  He used it anytime he had better things to do than what was demanded of him.  Oddly, Bilbo thought, he’d never seen his grandfather actually eat mutton.

“The thing of it was,” the Old Took said, “the farmers had put out traps. The Bounders had looked for any sign of fox or wolf. What they’d found, were footprints.”

“A thief?” Bilbo couldn’t believe it.  There were no thieves in the Shire.

“Exactly.  And specifically they found bootprints, small, skinny ones.  So unless a hobbit had taken to going shod, and that hobbit had strangely delicate feet, we had a goblin in our midst.”

“Where did it come from?” Bilbo asked.  “Are there really goblins around here?”

The ground was beginning to roll and not being able to see into the darkening dips around them was making Bilbo nervous.

“I didn’t know.  The closest goblins are is far east of Bree, which as I’m sure you know from your maps, is far east of Buckland, which is far east from here.  No need to panic, though, I told the farmers.  The way ahead was obvious.  You can’t trap a goblin as easily as you can a fox or wolf, but you could spy him out.  So we set out a watch, waited and, well, watched.”

“Did you catch him?”

“After four days, no.  So I sent a note to a friend of mine, a goblin hunter of sorts, to see what he could do.  He’s a man of uncertain address, but, fortunately,  he was not far away and my note found him very quickly.  He rode here immediately.  He’s good about that.  You can never be sure when he’ll show up, except when he’s absolutely needed, then he always does, if perhaps a bit later than you would have liked. 

Anyway, my friend said he would take a watch himself and, after considering the area, chose the same place we found that wonderful apple.  Now the story gets more curious.”

Bilbo wondered how it could.

“During the night he saw nothing.  But in the morning, while searching through his clothes for a match, he discovered that something of his was missing.  An old key.”

“Did he drop it?” Bilbo asked.

“That’s what I asked.  He said he didn’t think so.  He didn’t think anything could have fallen out of his pockets.  Then he said he looked around and noticed in the wet underbrush—"

“Bootprints!” Biblo said.

“Precisely. Obviously, I said, his pocket had been picked.  Or he had fallen asleep and his pockets had been rifled. This was a very sneaky, exceptionally plucky goblin. In light of these speculations, my friend decided, no, he must have dropped the key, that was it.  I didn’t argue the particulars.  No matter what order you throw things into the pot, you still get stew. And the key was missing.  Personally, I think he just got so lost in his thoughts that he might as well have fallen asleep.”

“Could he follow the tracks?” Bilbo had many questions he wanted to ask, but his grandfather was speaking so seriously to him, as if he were a Bounder, that he decided to stick to those which  seemed most important. Then he had an idea he couldn’t hold in. “He did, didn’t he, and the tracks led north, just like we’re going now.”

“Very good.” The Old Took patted his grandson.  His mother always said he was more bookish than Tookish.  Maybe that balance was shifting.  “Unfortunately, the tracks didn’t lead very far.  We passed that point a ways back.  So he and I and the Bounders searched this whole area.  We still couldn’t find the goblin.  The next night, though, he finally made a mistake.”

“He tried to rob your friend again?” 

“No.” The Old Took chuckled. “My, that would have been something. To see his face… No, our goblin went back to the chickens and stepped into a wolf trap.  Perhaps all his sneak and pluck had gone to his head.”

“What did you do with him?” Bilbo asked.  He couldn’t decide if he should feel ashamed for being so excited at what must be the answer.

“I didn’t do anything.  The farmer whose trap it was, Mr. Grubb, you might know his grandson Otho—“

Bilbo shook his head.

“No matter.  Mr. Grubb heard the goblin’s howling and ran out with a pitchfork and stabbed him through the chest, once for each chicken he might have lost, then once for himself and once more for his wife.  He drank on that story for six months.  My friend said the goblin had come into the Shire from beyond the Tower Hills, perhaps even from the Blue Mountains, if his clothes and badges were to be believed. This didn’t please him.  Worse, the goblin didn’t have the key.  He must have had a hideout somewhere, a cave, a lair, whatever goblins call these things, and we realized we were unlikely to find it.  So my friend went off ‘on business,’ as he likes to say, and I went off to the Ivy Bush to toast our new hero.

“Then last week a hunter killed a wolf .  When he searched its den, he found this.”  The Old Took pulled out a piece of poorly tooled leather.  “What do you make of it?”

The sun was running away from them very quickly now, and Bilbo had to hold the leather up high into its beams to get a good look at it.  “It’s old and grimy.  Not hobbit leather.  Is it goblin?”

“Don’t guess.  Observe, think, then decide.  Just like when you’re hunting mushrooms.”

Bilbo studied the leather carefully.  “These studs are…wait, here, there’s a rune scored into it.  Or a piece of one. It’s not Elven.  I’ve seen elven in books.  It’s not Dwarvish, either, but it looks like it a little.”  Bilbo let his hand fall and looked at his grandfather.  “Is it Orc?  I read that if they do write, nobody’s sure, they use runes based on Dwarvish.”

“Excellent!” This wasn’t the Old Took’s voice. It came from the shadow of a tree.  It was quiet, but strong.  The Old Took jumped to hear it.  Bilbo didn’t jump because it was easier to hide behind his grandfather.

“I thought we were going to meet farther on,” the Old Took said, composing himself.

“Yes, but it was growing so late my rounds of pacing grew wider and wider until I found myself here,” the voice said.  “Rather pleasant to be thought of as early for once.” A figure split from shadow and coursed into the light like a great barge poled by a stick four times as tall his grandfather’s.  It was a man wearing a blue robe shot with so much silver it seemed gray and so thick it must have been terribly on such a day.  He wore a matching hat, peaked like a mountain except the snow was underneath in the man’s long beard rather than on top.  The first word that popped into Bilbo’s mind was “ungainly.”  It was a rude thought, and he promptly set it aside to be forgotten.

“This is my friend,” the Old Took said, “come to see how the story ends.  His name is Gandalf. Gandalf, Bilbo, my grandson.  Belladonna’s boy.”

Gandalf tapped the brim of his hat with his staff.  Bilbo bowed the way his mother had taught him.  Another thought crossed his mind, but it seemed as rude as the first, so he tried to ignore it.

“Your formality is much appreciated, young hobbit, but hardly necessary.  As to the thought that just flew across your face as plain as a fried egg on a black plate, my name is just Gandalf.  Not Gandalf What.  Not Mr. Gandalf. I have other names, but even these stand alone, and sobriquets too, but these are others’ names for me, not my name for myself.  I’m pleased to meet you. I understand you’re going to perform a service for us.”

Bilbo looked at his grandfather.

“I was just about to get to that,” the Old Took said.  “First, this.”  He pointed to the piece of leather in Bilbo’s hand.

“Yes,” said Gandalf as held out his hand. Bilbo gave the leather to him.  Gandalf held it up into the light and said, “He’s right, Gerontius, as, indeed, were you. This is an Orc character, but one more commonly used by goblins.”  He looked at Bilbo and explained, “Goblins and orcs are related, but no one knows if orcs are big goblins or if goblins are little orcs.  Their language is similar, but which first created it is also unknown.  Whatever their size, though, however they write, they are both equally unpleasant.”

“What does it mean?” Bilbo asked.  “The rune.”

“It’s partially missing, but I think it means ‘hill’ or ‘crag’ or ‘mountain,’” Gandalf said. “This piece looks torn from his belt, if I remember correctly, which also had the rune for ‘blue,” so perhaps they formed his clan name, ‘blue-crag.’”

“That would confirm where the goblin came from,” the Old Took said.  “Long walk.”

“As to why, that course is farther down the menu,” Gandalf said.  “This way.”

They walked briskly over a hill and found themselves facing another that looked like it had been cut in half, leaving rotten cliff mirrored by a broad dirt plaza.  At the base of the cliff was a low cave.  With the cliff glowing in the twilight, the cave seemed like an iris in a blind yellow eye looking down.

“That’s the wolf’s den,” the Old Took said.  “The hunter said there’s a crack in the back wall.  The piece of leather was wedged in its bottom, as if it had gotten stuck while the goblin was passing through it, so the goblin cut himself free.  Which means the goblin’s lair and Gandalf’s key are likely beyond that crack.”

“I am far too large to slip through the crack,” Gandalf said.  “And your grandfather is as adventurous at the sideboard as he is in the wild—”

“Steady,” the Old Took said.  Again the hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, but it felt very different now.

“What he means,” Bilbo said, “is you need someone very small and skinny like a goblin to go through that crack and look around.”

“Are you game, Bo?” the Old Took said.

The full Tookishness came on him then, but not in the way his grandfather had hoped.  “Papa,” Bilbo said, “how many grandchildren do you have? And grandnephews and grandnieces and second- and third-cousins?”

Bilbo’s tone indicated this wasn’t one of those question children pluck from the clouds, so he said, “Somewhere between dozens and scores.”

“And how many of them are as small and as skinny as me and old enough to be trusted?”

The Old Took looked abashed.  “Just one,” he admitted.

“I’ll need a light, then,” Bilbo said, “if I’m to prove I can still be of use once I get my belly.”

Gandalf tried so hard not to laugh, then failed utterly. The Old Took held out only a moment longer.   Bilbo, his jaw out as far as it would allow, saw that his shot had found its mark and he had already proven his worth.

Gandalf reached into his robe and pulled out a jewel the size of his fist and gave it to Bilbo.  “Watch,” Gandalf said, and he tapped it with his finger.  It glowed bright as a chandelier, but whiter, steadier and without heat.

“You’re a wizard,” Bilbo said.

“That’s not much wizarding there,” Gandalf said.  “That’s not even a proper jewel.  Just a hunk of waste glass I found beside a dwarf’s kiln.  But it’s more valuable than a jewel in one respect.  It exactly fits these little prongs at the top of my staff.  One man’s waste is another man’s wealth, they say. You will have to hold it, of course.”

“And here’s the knife,” the Old Took said, trading it for the staff.  “I doubt you’ll have to use it.  No wolf could get through that crack. And nothing a wolf would make a supper of would be foolish enough to live there and have to pass the wolf on its own way to supper.”

“What about spiders?” Bilbo asked.

“Stomp them,” Gandalf said.  “I would rid this world of spiders myself if I could only find a large enough boot.”

“Go on now. That’s my boy.” The Old Took gave Bilbo a gentle shove, and he let its current carry him to the cave mouth.

“It’s really dark in there,” Bilbo called out.

“It’s dark in there at noontime, so that it’s dark out here changes nothing,” Gandalf called back.  “The key’s not big and it’s queer looking, but you’ll know it when you see it.”

Bilbo sensibly thrust the light into the crack first, but the crack went too deep and the light was too bright for him to see much.  He would have to go in still, essentially, blind.

He examined the crack for a moment to see how he might fit, then turned sideways, hunched up his knees, pointed his toes towards the bottom of the crack, and slid inside with his arms outstretched so that he seemed to lay against one side of the crack.  He held the light in his stern hand, his right, so that he could see ahead while pulling himself forward with his bow hand, his left.  That’s the trick of it, he thought.

The trip was quicker than he had figured.  Beyond the crack was a cave much larger than the wolf’s den.  Bilbo stepped in.  The floor was littered with small bones.  Useless objects that you would find in gardens and which the goblin clearly had, were propped against the walls: old figurines, empty packets of seed, a rusty trowel.  Part of the floor had been cleared of stones and a wolf’s pelt, crudely removed and hopping with bugs, had been laid down and smoothed.  The cave made Bilbo very sad.  This had been the goblin’s home, miserable as it was.  And he was here to rob it. 

“Are you OK? Have you found the key?”  Gandalf and his grandfather had moved right outside the den.  The crack trumpeted their voices around the goblin’s room.  They brought Bilbo back to the task at hand.

“Yes. And no,” Bilbo responded.  He looked around.  Where would the goblin keep the key?  He looked high up on the walls, looked for small crevices that could be used as drawers and looked amidst the bric a brac the goblin had used for decorations.  He looked down.  It must be under the rug.

Bilbo reached for what had been a hindleg, and he was about to lift the pelt when it ocurred to him that maybe the key wasn’t alone under the rug.  He set the jewel in the hands of a figurine, readied his grandfather’s knife, crouched, counted to three, then yanked the pelt away.  

A black snake leaped at him. Bilbo swung the knife, his feet got caught up in the pelt, and he fell down hard.  Trying to stand he only tangled himself up more fully in the pelt, which may have lost the stench of goblin but had picked up a hundred other stenches along the way.   He heard his grandfather cry out in alarm, Gandalf too, then a flash far brighter and hotter than the jewel lit up the cave from outside.  A moment later the smell of sizzling meat crept into Bilbo’s nose, but not the type of meat that makes you hurry to table.

“Now that was some wizarding,” Gandalf yelled into the cave, “although perhaps more than the occasion called for.  We heard you fall.  Are you hurt?”

Bilbo found his feet again and threw off the pelt, spitting and brushing at himself furiously.  “Not hurt.  Itchy.  Terribly itchy.”

“What about the key?” the Old Took asked.

Bilbo looked at the now bare floor, where a shallow hole had been dug.  “It’s here. I’ve got it. And there’s something else.”

#

Outside Bilbo gave Gandalf the jewel and the key.  He inspected both closely, then he propped the jewel on top of his staff  and vanished the key inside his robes, where Bilbo saw countless small pockets artfully sewn into the garment.  “Again, excellent.  You’ve done me a great favor, Bilbo.”

“What’s the key to?” Bilbo asked.

“A door.  Don’t ask me where, I don’t exactly know, but it may prove incredibly important someday.  How so and when, that I don’t know either.  What else did you find?”

Bilbo surrendered an iron shackle.  Unlike those he had read about, it had no means of being opened, except by cracking the weld, then spreading it, which someone had done.  It would have been awfully tight even on a bone.  “There are runes on it,” Bilbo said.

Gandalf held the light down to read them.  They were in Orc.  Bilbo saw on his face the expression he had been feeling himself.

“It reads ‘enemy,’” Gandalf said.  “I think I understand now. Our goblin was an outcast. Why his clan didn’t kill him—that’s the usual punishment for their kind—I couldn’t guess.  Maybe the clan thought he would die alone in some way even more horrible way than they could imagine.  Maybe the clan didn’t want him to die but to live with this reminder of what he wasn’t any longer, one of them.”

Bilbo recalled his thought in the pantry about things changing and carried it one large leap further.  “If goblins are bad in our eyes,” Bilbo asked, carefully putting his words together, “would a goblin that other goblins think is bad then be considered good in our eyes?  Their waste our wealth, as it were?” 

This was so profound and convoluted an equation that it was easier for the Old Took to fall back on an old answer rather than to calculate a new one.  “Goblins are always bad, Bo.  Always. There’s no changing them. And no use pitying them.”

Gandalf might have answered differently, but he saw that his friend felt he’d settled the matter with his grandson, even if he also saw that Bilbo felt the matter remain un settled.  It wasn’t his place to stand between them.  Bilbo would have to find his own answer, Gandalf thought.

#

Several hours later, Bilbo was in bed, in the dark and in no way ready for sleep.  His mother had just finished haranguing her father for bringing him home late, filthy, over-exerted, and maybe even diseased.  He heard the front door close. No doubt half of Hobbiton heard the front door close.  She stomped down the hall so hard he thought the boards might crack.  He heard her say to his father, who had wisely fled to their bedroom as Bilbo and his grandfather arrived, “Tomorrow, Bungo, tomorrow morning, I am going to see Mr. Brownlock and we are going to form a committee that will include everyone on this side of the Water, then we will march on the Smials—with torches if necessary—and we will make him get us those street lamps if he has to pay for them himself, that’ll show him.” Then their door closed too and the hole was silent.

Bilbo had the urge to go to the pantry to see if  the shelves were set firmly against the wall.  Then he didn’t, and he fell asleep.

##