“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.”