I'll Wager It's A Dragon!

by Llinos
beta Marigold

"Which first?" Pippin asked cheerily. "The Moot or the Race?" There was a frosty barrier developing between Merry and Sam, and Pippin was anxious that his two friends did not fall out. "I think the Race – yes that would be best. I'll just pop and get another rake, and probably better if I drive this time Merry – don't you think?"

"No one's driving," Merry growled. "Get some of those boards Pippin and roll your sleeves up. We're going to do something you've never tried before."

"What's that Merry?" Pippin was always ready to try something new. "Have you got a plan? What are we going to do?"

"Some hard work!" Merry stalked off before he could register the look of dismay, which he knew his plan would invoke in Pippin, mainly because he knew it would amuse him, and Merry did not feel like being amused right now.

"No, seriously… Merry?" Pippin importuned his cousin's retreating back, optimistically hoping he had misheard. "What's the plan?"

"I think he means it Uncle Pippin," Frodo grimaced in sympathy with the Thain's panicked expression.

"Us too lad," Sam nodded towards the remaining intact scythe. "We'll mow and tidy, turn and turn about. Now grab hold of that scythe before your Uncle Pippin can think of any other ways to sabotage our work."

"Oh Sam! That's a bit…"

"Pippin!" Merry barked it out so sharply he even woke old Farmer Cotton, who had dozed off during the prolonged interval. "Stop nattering and get on with it!"

Pippin opened his mouth for an indignant retort but, seeing the look on his cousin's face, closed it again and hurried over to liberate two of the opposing team's boards.

Frodo paused his scything to nudge his father and nod towards their purloined equipment, which was now vanishing northwards under Pippin's arm, totally oblivious that he might have done anything untoward. Sam gave his head the slightest shake and winked at Frodo-lad. Frodo nodded in understanding and set to his scything with renewed vigour, suspecting that his canny Dad had convoluted something else into The Rules about "borrowing equipment".

"I don't see what you're making such a fuss about." Pippin dropped the boards beside his cousin, who was now on his knees frantically cramming grass cuttings into a sack with his bare hands. "I mean it's all getting a trifle out of hand don't you think? I've nothing against entertaining the masses with the engine driving and such, and singing a song is fine, but really Merry!" Pippin waved his hand expansively at the crowd, who seemed as bemused as Pippin himself. "This race was about demonstrating less hard labour, not more!"

"Well it's moved on!" Merry snapped. "It's now about winning – don't you want to win Pip?"

"Not really," Pippin sighed. "I'll pay the wager myself if you're that bothered about it."

"Not the money you clot!" Merry did not look up from his frantic grass shovelling and was obviously becoming more exasperated. "I mean winning; coming first; beating the odds! Honestly Pip, it's just a little hard work – that never killed anyone!"

"Yes it did!" Pippin began to count on his fingers. "There was old Jeb Bracegirdle, worked in his garden till he was 102 and was found dead next to his wheelbarrow. Harbo Banks, went up to mend the roof in a thunder storm and got hit by lightning. And don't forget Jess Fulburrow! Whistled his dog in the wrong direction just as he tangled his feet in his crook and was trampled by his own sheep!"

"Pip!" Merry looked up briefly. "He didn't die! He just suffered a severe case of embarrassment and you can't actually die of embarrassment!"

"I'm not so sure," Pippin frowned. "There are an awful lot of hobbits here and for me to get down on my hands and knees to scrabble around picking up grass – I could well make medical history!"

"You could," Merry agreed. "You could be the first hobbit to die from lack of hard work – when I murder you! Now get on with it!"

Pippin, having run out of arguments, coupled with Merry's increasing threats of violence, finally took the boards, one in each hand, and knelt to scoop up his share of grass, at the same time praying desperately for a celestial intercession, a humorous disturbance or even a minor accident to divert his cousin from his insistence that he participate in irrationally arduous labour.

Answers to gratuitous prayers often come in perverse and startling ways. Before Pippin's boards had touched the offending grass cuttings and his unblemished record of never actually setting his hands to major toil, an hysterical cry rang out across the party field.

"Help! Help! Every… everybody – c-come quickly!" The voice paused, obviously out of breath, but all eyes turned upon young Herbie Pottleshaw, running frantically up the Bywater Road, waving his arms crazily as he came.

Sam was first to react, throwing down his scythe and rushing over to meet the panic-stricken lad. A crowd of worried onlookers followed the Mayor; such a display from a hobbit must mean serious tidings indeed.

Before Herbie could gain his breath, rumours had already begun to fly around the field, possibly even faster than the great engine had done and perhaps with as much devastation.

"It'll be them scoundrels again, you mark my words!"

"Are the wasps coming back?" Several lasses pulled their aprons over their heads in panic at the prospect.

"Yes – and where's my ale?" Tom Cotton had just remembered why the youngster had been sent off to the pub. "A hobbit could die of thirst left to your mercy, you young scallywag!"

"Wolves! Got to be wolves at least."

"Not this time of year – I'll wager it's a dragon!"

"It is!" Herbie was still panting for air. "It's… Th… the Green Dragon…"

"Aye, I bet Belco Pinchpurse offered to buy a round!" Gusts of laughter drowned Herbie's frantic efforts to communicate.

"Hush!" Sam demanded. "Let the lad speak. What's happened Herbie?"

-TBC-