Sam glumly inspected the Party Field behind Bag End. Everything was ready: sun shining, warmer than expected; canvas taut, and banners flying; squibs and crackers from Dale; fireworks; birthday cake. One-hundred-forty-four invitations accepted, but more would come. There was food and drink in plenty to serve them all.

“Speeches, ” he groaned.

He heard a bottle of wine being poured behind him and a glass was thrust into his hand.

“Cheer up, Sam, at least there will be no surprises.”

“I wouldn’t count on it, Master Merry, and I’d rather a mug o’ beer.”

“What?” Pippin breezed up, livery gleaming. “Toast the King’s 111th birthday in beer? I should think not!”