Pippin stirred the mush of bacon and oatmeal; a scanty, poor way to start the day, for five travelers, and one of them oversized. A real breakfast would have eggs and streaky rashers, with sweet hearth cakes, bursting with raisins and dripping butter. Dividing the meal, he ladled a double portion into Strider’s bowl. There was a slight hesitation before the Ranger dug in.

“Not my idea of good, either.” Pippin grimaced, sat down and started to eat. “You’ve lived with elves?”

Mouth full, Strider nodded.

“What’s your favorite breakfast?”

A pause. A swift smile. “Buttered hearth cakes with raisins.”