May 18, 1405

Sam dropped his burden with a grunt.

“Careful with that, Sam-lad,” Hamfast Gamgee said without looking up from the flower bed.

Sam mopped his brow.  “It’s only a sack o’ manure, Dad,” he said.

“That it is, but it wouldn’t do to crush Master Frodo’s petunias by flinging it about without a care, if ye follow me.”

“Aye,” Sam replied absently.  He had seen a flicker of movement over by the garden bench.

“Well, dig in, son,” the Gaffer prompted.  “I’ll be back after I see to the cabbages.  And mind you keep your eyes to yourself,” he added, seeing the direction of Sam’s gaze.

Sam frowned and opened the sack of manure.  It was a warm day for this sort of work, and before long he was sweating and filthy.

The figure at the garden bench continued to move about restlessly, and Sam did his best not to look over too often.  After awhile he lost track of the other’s whereabouts, until a shadow fell across the flower bed.

“Afternoon, Mr. Merry,” Sam said politely.

“Hullo, Samwise.”  If Merry detected a hint of coolness in Sam’s greeting, he gave no sign of it.

Sam waited, but Merry said nothing else.  Sam laid down his trowel and got to his feet, trying not to be annoyed by Merry’s curious gaze.

“Somethin’ I can do for ye, Mr. Merry?” he asked.

“No, no,” Merry said hastily.  “Just wanted to see what you were up to.”

“Well, nothin’ much to speak of.”  Sam gestured to the flower bed he’d been working on.  He did not know what to say to Merry.  They had played together on occasion as children, it was true, but they had even less in common now than they did then.  They had an acquaintance with Frodo in common, he supposed. 

But although Merry seemed a decent enough sort, and was a regular visitor to Bag End, Sam couldn’t shake the suspicion that Merry was imposing on Frodo this time.  He had arrived so much earlier in the year than was usual, for one thing.  And Sam had heard rumours that Merry had grown into a bit of a firebrand, that his temper and impulsiveness had caused problems for more than himself.  Frodo was too kind-hearted for his own good, as far as Sam was concerned.  And if he felt a bit protective of his master, well, that was his own concern.

Sam looked up as Merry shrugged.  “Well… I won’t keep you from it any longer,” he said, and strolled away.

Sam flushed at Merry’s lofty behaviour and went back to work with a little more force than necessary.

Later that week, Sam had a more welcome interruption to his work.  He was labouring to uproot a particularly stubborn weed.  It came barely up to his knees, but already had put down roots deep enough to make the job difficult.

He was wedging his shovel against the stump when Bag End’s door opened and its master came out.

“Hullo, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, wiping his streaming brow with his rather dirty sleeve.

“How goes it, Sam?” Frodo asked cheerfully.

“Well enough, though this ‘un has me stumped.”  Sam kicked at the stubborn weed stump with his toe.  He didn’t realize he’d made a pun until Frodo laughed.

“Why don’t you come in and have a bite of elevenses?” Frodo asked.  “I’ve more than enough, and you look as if you could use a rest.”

Sam leaned on his shovel.  “I won’t say no, if you’re sure it ain’t a bother.”

“Of course not,” Frodo said, and pointedly took the shovel from Sam, laying it on the ground.  “Now, this’ll still be here when you return.”

Sam followed Frodo gratefully to the kitchen.  He washed as best he could at the kitchen pump, then took the seat Frodo indicated.

Merry was just bringing a jug of cider from the cellar, the final touch to a delicious elevenses spread.  He barely looked at Sam as he sat down, and Sam tried not to feel uncomfortable.  Although Merry had been pleasant enough to him in the past, lately he had the feeling that Merry rather looked down on him.  Of course, many gentlehobbits looked down on plain folks like Sam, but, though the Gaffer would frown on Sam’s presumption, he couldn’t help resenting it more, coming as it did from the close friend and cousin of his master.

Now Sam fumbled awkwardly with his napkin, aware that Merry was looking at him.  He suddenly noticed that the cursory wash he’d had at the kitchen pump had not much improved the state of his hands.  There was dirt under his fingernails, and of course his shirt and trousers were dusty from the morning’s work.

Now Merry and Frodo were exchanging looks, and Sam realized, mortified, that he hadn’t heard a word of the question Merry had just asked him.  He hurriedly buttered a slice of bread to cover his blush.

Frodo somehow kept the conversation going, but Sam was too embarrassed to help him, and Merry too preoccupied.

Frodo shook his head and sighed as he cleared away the dishes later.  He knew the tweens could be a moody time, but this was getting ridiculous.

The sweet smell of June roses was in the air as Merry made his way down the road to the Ivy Bush, but he was in too much of a hurry to notice.  He had just returned from a short camping trip with Frodo, and he didn’t think he could stand another minute of silence and reflection.  Nature was all well and good, he supposed, but it got to a point where a fellow needed to have others around, to be surrounded by folks talking and laughing and just generally being good company.

Not that Frodo wasn’t good company, of course—he was just… quiet.  And he would look at you with those perceptive azure eyes, and even if you squirmed and changed the subject, somehow you felt you hadn’t fooled him at all.

Merry shrugged off the uncomfortable feeling and pushed open the heavy door.  He smiled in satisfaction as the sounds of hobbit chatter and clinking tableware surrounded him.

A large group of young folks had congregated around a large table, and one of them waved to him.

“Pull up a seat,” Gordo Grubb said cheerfully.

He didn’t know everyone, but introductions were duly made.  The evening passed pleasantly until Merry realized with a start that it was dark outside.

“I told Frodo I’d be home before dark,” he explained in response to Gordo’s questioning glance.

Another tween at the table guffawed.  “Well, you’d better run home then,” he said.  “Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”

Some of the others laughed and Merry flushed.  He felt a trifle guilty for not keeping his word to Frodo, but also embarrassed.  Why should Frodo set a curfew for him, anyway?  He wasn’t much younger than most of the hobbits at the table.

Merry recalled the fellow had introduced himself as Kip Hornblower.  “I can do as I like,” Merry heard himself tell Kip loftily.

“I’d believe that,” Kip said mysteriously.

Merry wanted to wipe the smirk off his face.  “What do you mean by that?” he demanded.

Kip rose from his chair and sauntered over to stand eye-to-eye with Merry.  “Only that I know all about you—you’re in line to be master of Buckland!”

“Everyone knows that,” Merry said angrily.

“Only my cousin moved here from Buckland just a month ago, so I know a little more than you’d think,” he smirked.

Merry’s fists were clenched, but he didn’t say anything.

Kip noticed that half the table was watching, and went on, clearly enjoying the attention, “I know the future Master of Buckland is not considered very promising.”  He looked Merry up and down.  “And now that I’ve met you, I can see the rumours are true.”

Merry’s fury boiled over, and blindly he lashed out at the mocking face.

Kip fell back in surprise, clutching a bruised chin.  “Why, you—” he cried, and ran at Merry.

The ensuing fight was furious but brief, as the innkeeper, not being one to put up with any nonsense, quickly broke them up.

“Now see here, I won’t have any o’ that in my place!” he said firmly.  “You lads better not show your faces round here till ye’ve learned to behave like civilized folk!”

With that, he seized each boy by his collar.  Merry had a brief impression of many startled faces as he was escorted none too gently out the door.  Perhaps most mortifying of all was the sight of Sam Gamgee sitting by the back wall with his brother.  And just when he’d hoped the gardener’s opinion of him couldn’t sink any lower.

Outside, Merry and Kip glared at each other.

“Just you stay away from me!”  Merry hollered before Kip could say anything.  Then he turned and stalked off toward Bag End.

It wasn’t a particularly long walk, and not nearly long enough to cool his temper.  He was just opening the garden gate when he heard footsteps behind him.

“What can I do for you, Samwise,” Merry said, turning round.

Sam withered a little under Merry’s glare, but pressed on determinedly.  “I came to see that ye were all right, Mr. Merry.”

“You sure you didn’t come to tell tales to Frodo about me?” Merry demanded.

“Indeed not!” Sam said indignantly.  “And if you’ll forgive my sayin’ so, Mr. Frodo’ll have only to look at ye to know you’ve been fightin’.  Or haven’t ye noticed the dirty great lip you’ve got?”

Merry put a hand to his lip and realized that indeed, his lip had swelled up.  He only now noticed the pain.  He felt he should apologize to Sam, but the other lad had already turned on his heel and disappeared down the dark path.

Feeling even worse, Merry went into the foyer as quietly as he could.

Frodo paused in the middle of doing up a button, trying to decide if he’d heard something or not.

“That you, Merry?”  A shuffling step in the foyer confirmed his suspicions.

“Thank goodness, I was getting ready to send out the search parties,” Frodo joked, trying not to sound as worried as he’d been.

“Sorry I’m so late,” Merry said from the foyer.

Frodo frowned.  Merry’s voice sounded odd somehow.  He looked down at his half-buttoned waistcoat.  He’d been putting it on, getting ready to go out and look for Merry.  He hastily unbuttoned it and tossed it aside.

“Well, never mind that, are you going to come in here and tell me what you’ve been up to this evening?” Frodo winced at his choice of words, fearing they sounded too accusing.

“I’m a little tired, actually,” Merry said after a pause.  “I think I’ll just go to bed, if you don’t mind.”

Frodo was puzzled.  Merry didn’t sound offended, just… odd.  He extracted himself from Bilbo’s favourite armchair and headed for the foyer.

“All right, Merry,” he said, “what’s the matter—why, your lip is bleeding!”

Merry accepted Frodo’s proffered handkerchief with thanks, but wouldn’t meet his eyes.  “It’s nothing, Frodo.  It’s just you have a ninny for a cousin, is all.”

“Well, what happened?” Frodo demanded, worrying even more.  “Did someone hit you?”

Merry sighed, clearly embarrassed.  “It was my fault, Frodo.  I lost my temper with this windbag down at the Ivy Bush, and hit him.”

“What?” Frodo exclaimed incredulously.

“There, now you know it all, and I’d like to go to bed.”  Merry flushed.

“Merry, I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s wrong,” Frodo said softly.  “Please, I’m worried about you!”

Merry scowled.  “Yes, I suppose you’re worried right along with everyone else that I’ll be a lousy Master of Buckland one day!”

“Now hang on—”  Frodo was too surprised to stop Merry from storming past and slamming into his bedroom.

“Who is ‘everyone else’?” he wondered aloud.

He spent a minute cleaning up the dishes from his bedtime snack, then prepared for bed.  He knocked on Merry’s door on his way, wondering if his younger cousin had cooled down yet.

But there was no answer, and Frodo sighed in exasperation and resolved to try to find out more tomorrow.