“How many, Frodo?” asked Bilbo.

His nephew coloured guiltily and looked down at the almost empty plate.  Only three jamdrops remained in rather crumbly glory on it:  clearly this afternoon’s tea party would be celebrated without any of Daisy Proudfoot’s renowned biscuits.

“Nine, I think.”

Bilbo snorted.  As heedless a ‘tween as his nephew was, he didn’t expect downright lying from him.

“I ordered two dozen – and don’t tell me a dragon ate them!”

A small fat Hobbit edged out from behind the cider barrel and raised a jam-smeared face to look at Bilbo.

“Please, Mr Bilbo – I et twelve.”