FIC: The Grand Annual Four Farthings Show - G to NC17 15/?

[tiriel_35]

Title of Part: GAFFS - Show Day the Second - Afternoon (15/?)
Summary: In which the Took Family arrives after a slight delay and Sam does *not* lose his Frodo to a Took-lass, but discovers instead that three may indeed be company
Rating: Maybe A for Awwww? Depending, of course, on your interests. B for Boring otherwise
A/N:
Afficionados of historical toys may sympathise with my desire to give the ball and cup game an alternative name; but Bilbao was not a seaport of Middle-earth...
The sweets are more or less traditional here - and I admit that every single one of them I have weighed or counted out and sold, myself! Not for nothing did I spend my formative years working weekends and holidays in a sweet shop (though I am definitely not Victorian!) However, many of those mentioned are included within a slim red volume in my possession; entitled The Confectioner's Handbook, it is signed and dated Kate Benson 1887. Kate was a several times Great Aunt and a Confectioner too. (Maybe it's in the blood??)
The Traveller's Cat may be found here
Today's trivia: did you know that nowhere in LotR does JRRT refer to Peregrin Took as Pip?
ETA: the eagle-eyed Princessofg points out that there is in fact one instance of the name: 'And I’m a Took, Peregrin Took, but I’m generally called Pippin, or even Pip.’ TTT, Chapter 4, Treebeard; which in a novel of over 1000 pages, sort of makes my point, such as it was! ;-))

~~~

It helped, of course, that Frodo was thoroughly swaddled in one towel and attempting to dry his hair with another. He was rather hampered in this by the small hobbit draped over his back, arms almost tight enough to choke in the simmering excitement of being at the Show.

Sam had wondered at the morning's Show-ground shortage of the Tooks of Great Smials. Master Peregrin, of course, must be left at home on the first day; he required far more watching than could be spared when produce and handicrafts rosettes were at stake, to say nothing of the showing of Lowland ponies, Mr Paladin’s pride and joy. But from quite early on this second day, you could usually count on hearing Pippin’s delighted squeal here and there, even when you couldn’t see him - and Sam hadn’t.

Returning a cheerful Hello, Sam! politely, Sam swabbed at his own hair. Only a little way away - and close enough that Sam hurried back into his shirt, for Miss Pearl and Miss ’Nel were eyeing him, and giggling too - Mr Paladin and Mistress Eglantine were giving Mr Bilbo the account of their somewhat late arrival, hobbit love of a good story to the fore. It would have taken a far stronger one than Sam to ignore their tale; he knew what he was doing must count as ear-wigging, but he really couldn’t help it, for their rendition was almost a practised duet already.

'Everything was well in hand,’ Mr Paladin explained. ‘Just a few last minute arrangements to make and the carriage to bring round to the door.’

‘I thought it rather unusual that he should be late for breakfast, today of all days…’ The Mistress’s tone gave an inevitability to what was to follow, Sam thought.

‘… almost ready to leave, there was such a noise and a flurry where they were gathering in the hall…’

‘… babble of voices and a shriek went up just as Pippin rushed in, wanting something to eat…’

‘… my only son - totally covered in bright red spots - face, arms, chest - everywhere…’

‘… everywhere and they weren’t there when I bathed him - it had come on so fast…’

‘… first thing obviously was to fetch back those who had already set off…’

‘… Nanny Bunce whisked him off before I could get a proper look …’

‘… so many folk had left at first light to make the most of…’

‘… chance to minister once more to her precious lamb…’

‘… he saddled up quickly he might just catch them…’

‘… echoing complaint at being put back to bed…’

‘… a disappointment indeed, for everyone…’

‘… then Cook brought out her son Perdy…’

‘… looked worse by far than Peregrin…’

‘… and oozingly, luridly yellow…’

‘… positively pustulant…’

‘… quarantine…’

‘… contagion…’

‘… epidemic…’

‘Shire-wide!’

They were both quite breathless by the time that Mistress Eglantine declared, ‘And I didn’t even know he had a box of paints!’

Sam realised that Mr Bilbo looked a trifle uncomfortable at this point- but he surely couldn’t be held responsible for what a hobbit lad chose to do with gifts he was given, could he? Sam could only wonder that this hadn’t happened sooner - it was, after all, a week or three since Bilbo had visited the Smials.

Pippin was confiding his side of the tale to Frodo, with more emphasis on the indignity of being reclaimed by Nanny for the nursery he was gradually escaping. ‘It was Perdy’s idea, really,’ he sounded a trifle envious, ‘but I thought we should both get our bottoms spanked and be left behind, when Papa sent us to stand in the study. There were a lot of funny noises, then we were taken out and scrubbed again,’ his complaint was that of every lad ever made to wash more than once in the day, ‘and then everyone was smiling and rushing about because they were going to be so late, and we were allowed to come, too.’ Pippin’s brow furrowed in puzzlement at the obscure behaviour of grownups.

‘I can't wait to go on the Rides, Frodo, 'cause all we've really done yet is have lunch, and then we came to watch you and Sam and the porridge - I wish breakfast at home could be like that!’

‘Pippin, you mustn’t-’

‘What did it feel like, Frodo?’

‘Sort of cold and sticky and-’

‘Crawly down your neck, like that?’ He stalked small fingers over Frodo's skin.

Frodo squirmed away and laughed, wriggling into his shirt. ‘Just like that!’

‘You looked so funny with the bowl in your head! Why did Sam do that?’

‘Spur of the moment,’ Frodo said, at the same time as Sam said, ‘Well, Master Pippin, we was just-’

‘But why did you, Sam? Don’t you like him?’

‘No, I-’ Sam had to clamp down quickly on the unguarded reply, on the truth that so nearly escaped him. No, I love him wouldn’t be right, to so small a child, let alone that Frodo was right there, and Mr Bilbo and a troupe of Tooks within earshot. Luckily, Pippin enjoyed questions more than waiting for answers from tongue-tied gardeners.

‘I’ve never had green porridge - what did it taste like?’

Frodo paused his shirt-buttoning. ‘Like cold porridge - perhaps a little sweeter. It certainly didn’t taste green!’

‘Could I try some?’

‘I don’t think you’d like it much, cold, and anyway, what’s left isn’t fit to-’

‘I’m going to ask Cook to make our porridge green!’ Sam could tell what was coming from the gleam in Pippin's eyes.

‘I don’t really think Aunt-’

‘Frodo, would Vinca be very cross, should you think, if-’

‘Pippin! You are not ever to do that at home!’

‘Sam did it,’ Pippin said in an aggrieved tone, ‘and it was funny.’

‘Yes, well, Sam was-was-’

‘Was what, Frodo?’

‘He was-um-’

‘I were showing everybody just why it’s such a very naughty thing to do, Master Pippin, and why they shouldn’t ever do such a thing to anyone now they’ve seen what a nasty mess it made of Mr Frodo.’

‘Exactly!’ Frodo cast a grateful glance to Sam. ‘And anyway, big boys don’t do things like that to their sisters.’

‘So Sam could do it because he isn’t your sister?’

Frodo didn’t laugh, as Sam thought he might. Instead, attention all on straightening his braces, he said quietly, ‘No, Pippin. Sam could do it because he’s my friend. Best friends can do all sorts of things with each other, and neither of them ever minds.’

Something squeezed tight within Sam’s chest, rejoicing that Frodo counted him a best friend; he quelled the tiny, rebellious part of him that hurt to be no more than that.

‘Frodo?’ Bilbo was gesturing to him to join a discussion which involved, Sam had gathered from snatches caught between Pippin’s questions, the firming of tentative plans for an overnight stay at Bag End by Mr Paladin, Mistress Eglantine and their offspring. This was no real surprise to Sam, since he had also made up the seldom-used truckle bed in the second best bedroom on Sterday; what was surprising was that Mr Bilbo should think to keep Pippin out of too much trouble without Frodo there to entertain him.

Oh!

Frodo must also be returning home for the night.

Sam swallowed his disappointment and busied himself clearing away the messy remains of the breakfast, washing the dish and spoons and returning bowls and ewers to the refreshment tent. He scraped and shook congealed porridge from the dust sheets, spreading them and the towels over the wagon sides to dry. He lingered then, hitching himself up onto the wagon bed - within earshot should Mr Bilbo call him, but wondering if he didn’t ought to take himself off entirely; not wanting to leave if he didn’t have to, but knowing that his time alone at the Show with Frodo must end here.

He sighed, and allowed himself the comfort of daydream, closing his eyes the better to see Frodo’s creamy skin, completely free of its disfiguring green mantle; the better to remember Frodo’s gentle touch halting the trickle of porridge toward his eye; Frodo’s hair flowing as watered silk through his hands; Frodo's fingers riffling his foot hair with the unexpected result that was threatening to recur right now-

It was stopped short by the sudden realisation that the Great Smials contingent had arrived - and that they had probably brought with them the prettily lilting Took-lass who was just waiting to claim his borrowed Frodo. It meant nothing that only the Family were here as yet; there must be more plans afoot than the night’s visit to Bag End, to need discussion at such length.

His eyes shot open - to find Frodo and Pippin not three feet in front of him, Frodo with a grin at having caught him dozing, Pippin’s pout telling quite clearly that he had just been thwarted of a particularly loud Boo! Beyond them were the backs of Mr Bilbo and the elder Tooks, already a fair step toward the refreshment tent; the lasses vanished into the crowd even as Sam looked.

Frodo nudged Pippin into a question. ‘Please, Sam, may I go round the Show with you and Frodo?’ The effect was somewhat marred by a loud whisper of, ‘Was that polite enough?’

Frodo laughed. ‘Just about! You won’t mind if he joins us, will you Sam?’

Sam stuttered ‘N-not at all, sir.’ He would have volunteered to accompany Mistress Lobelia through the Showground, for the smile that Frodo gave him then. And the way that Frodo had put it, Master Pippin would be joining them, rather than Sam being the one to be invited along too, which was wholly wonderful but so like his Frodo.

‘Come on!’ Pippin said, dragging his cousin by the hand, politeness obviously done for the day. ‘Merry-go-round first!’

‘Very well. Sam and I haven’t had a turn yet, either, and we were just thinking of it, weren’t we Sam?’

‘Yessir.’ Sam’s thoughts in that regard had actually tended rather toward Daisy’s hints of forbidden temptation than the excitement Pippin craved, but a Ride was a Ride and not to be sneezed at.

More hobbits than ever seemed to have the same idea, and the queue snaked past many a stall. These pitches were chosen with intent, customers being more easily tempted when held temporarily captive. Before they reached the Ride itself, all three were clutching a selection of items that Pippin, overcome by a munificence showered on him by his papa, had been unable to resist.

He’d need far more practice with his whip-and-top though, than was possible on the limited stretch of flagstone the vendor had thoughtfully brought along to encourage purchase. Moreover, based on what had happened there, Sam could foresee trouble ahead, back at the Smials, and was only thankful that it would then be someone else’s problem. A brightly coloured pinwheel lacked breeze sufficient to spin it longer, for even Sam’s lungs gave out at last; time would tell, but he was convinced that Pippin would lose it to the speeding rush of the Merry-go-round. The silver-paper-covered ball still bounced repetitively on its elastic string but had lost its charm when Frodo forbade its use as a weapon; it was filled, Sam was to discover extensively when curiosity got the better of Pippin, with sawdust.

A small collection of alleys - mostly clays but with a prize or two in colour-swirled glass - must stay in their drawstring bag, needing time and room to play as they did; though perhaps not quite so much as the cup-and-ball set, with which Pippin briefly endangered the eyesight if not the continued consciousness of other hobbits in the line. Sam acknowledged (to himself if not aloud) that his fingers itched to have a go and see if he retained his old skill at the game, but he would not gainsay Frodo's prohibition on its use in such close quarters. The hand puppet, though, had been a good idea. With it, Frodo kept his cousin amused far longer than Sam would have reckoned - or could have hoped, in competition as it was with a penny whistle of positively piercing tone. By the time that they stood ready to board the rapidly emptying Merry-go-round, Sam found himself to be actually in need of time to sit and rest.

The crowd surged forward, the polite queue breaking into an extended wave of hobbits all intent upon one thing. Pippin slipped Frodo's hand and made a swift lunge between a pair of tweens jostling for who should lay claim to an outside pony. He was aboard before either of them realised that they had lost their prize: a fine piebald, its patching somewhat erratically daubed, as though the artist had truly enjoyed his lunchtime ale that day. Saddle and reins were both scarlet - the one carved and coloured, the other of well-worn leather. In all he made a magnificent beast for any rider, and Pippin was most annoyed to discover that he must ride tandem, a scowl beginning to form until Frodo pointed out how very many hobbits would be left ride-less this turn even if everyone doubled up.

Sam’s mount was one row behind and one in from the edge: a soberly painted bay with trappings of rich blue, gilded liberally as if to make up for so plain a body colour. He leaned down suddenly, and offered his hand, for there, almost swamped in the press of hobbits still hoping to find a vacant pony, was a very small lad who looked rather familiar. He grasped hold without a second thought, and in one smooth movement, was settled before Sam in the saddle.

‘Ranly, isn’t it?’

The lad nodded, thrust his farthing at Sam, and gathered the reins in one hand, threading the other into the shaggy mane, wriggling his impatience for the Ride to begin.

‘Where’s your sister, Ranly? Or your brothers?’

Ranly shrugged to indicate the supreme irrelevance of such questions when he was about to embark on a thrilling gallop aboard a fiery steed - even if he did have to share it with The Interfering Hobbit. Sam could remember exactly how excited he had been at that age, though the hobbit who had given him that first Galloper Ride was now doing the same for Pippin. The excitement he’d felt then was Ranly’s excitement now - an entirely different kind to what he would feel could he but ride with Frodo once again...

As the Ride quickened to its fullest speed, the wind of their going whipped at hair and clothes - and at the paper sails of Pippin’s pinwheel, whirling it to a colourless blur before sweeping it from his hand just as Sam had predicted. Pippin whooped and gee’d up his pony to go faster, chattering incessantly the while. Ranly, though, was a silent rider, quivering with the intensity of this marvellous experience but bottling it all inside. Snatches of Pippin’s monologue whisked back to Sam in the speed of their going, but they registered no real sense after Frodo had turned around to smile at him - a smile that said this was even better for sharing it with the two young lads they were holding safe. Maybe it said, too, that Sam was not the only one to remember that long ago Ride (though he’d not be wishing, as Sam was, to share his pony with a far bigger lad, and never mind what Daisy may have said at sight of them).

Ranly sat his pony until the carousel stopped completely, sliding from the bay’s back only reluctantly. He gave Sam a smile and almost said something (Sam suspected an imminent Thank you) but then a sisterly voice called, ‘Ranly! Come here!’ and Sam was not in the least surprised to see the lad slither between the legs of the crowd and disappear without a backward glance.

Sam ducked his head and hurried after Frodo, who was already advising Pippin of the secret of the Joywheel. After three turns, Pippin was in much the same state as poor Lester had been, but proud of the fact that he had been last-but-one to fall off on the third. Sam accompanied him for two before admitting defeat, whilst Frodo freely confessed that he’d prefer not to risk such queasiness again, and went instead to hold places in line for them at the swing-boats. His insides quickly recovering, with the enviable facility of the young, Pippin pulled rope with Frodo against Sam; he was not in the least interested in drifting anywhere, and there was little energy to spare to remembrance anyway, for Pippin wanted speed and height, and speed and height they gave him. The delight in his voice was well worth the effort and the strain on their muscles.

Sam had never done this before, had never escorted a much smaller hobbit around the Show. He was surprised at just how much Pippin’s enjoyment of everything they did made him see and enjoy it afresh, too, and keeping so close an eye as was needed became a small price to pay. Pippin was interested in everything, had at least one go at nearly every game, was unworried by his lack of success at most of them and immensely grateful for any small prize that came his way. When they visited the mirrors, he was completely fascinated by the convoluted copies of themselves and his laughter was every bit as contagious as his spots had not been.

Once out of the straw-bale enclosure, he made a beeline for a stall that Sam and Frodo had unaccountably passed by, the day before. Mistress Sandbrook was acknowledged to be the most skilled amongst a guild of confectioners dedicated to the art of making sweets to please both eye and palate - and oh, the choice that she spread here so generously!

There were jars of acid drops to clench up your mouth and suck your cheeks in afore you even knew you were doing it; and sherbet lemons - just as sour, but with that sweetly shocking fizz when you broke though their bright crisp shells to the powder within. Trays of fluffy marshmallow, that Mam had liked so much, rolled and sliced into fat warm cushions of pink or white, set next to Gaffer’s favourite cough candy: rough-cut squares with pale, crumbly edges and a sweet-sharp, piercing taste. Boxes of aniseed balls all in brown that came off on your fingers when you’d licked them; and their huge cousins, the gobstoppers, whose sucking you’d to pause so often, taking them out to inspect their rainbow colour changes till at last they were resolutely white and disappointing to the eye (though the taste stayed good right to the end). More jars - of pear drops, parti-coloured red and yellow, briskly sugar-coated on the tongue and melting to the summer smell and sweetness of the ripest pears; luscious berry flavours in mouth-watering pastilles or glossy fruitdrops, slick in their motley. A tall jar showed off the spiralled canes of barley sugar to hold in your hand and suck until their twistiness was smoothed all away and you crunched the gold that even felt sunny inside your mouth.

The freshness of mint was bottled here too, in many guises - softly fondant circles, or cubes like pale clear ice; chewy white spearmints or stripy, sharp-edged humbugs. And there was liquorice in all its various shapes, laid flat in boxes for temptation and display: chubby pipes for pretend-smoking, solid black sticks, or flat and stretchy straps; pinwheels to eat from the outside, unrolling till you reached the comfit in the centre; and the flat little coins sold by the quarter, each thumb-printed by its maker, that suited grownups who kept a liking for the flavour. More exciting were the sherbet fountains with a liquorice straw to suck through, even though it clogged so soon and you’d to lick the sweetness from it then, instead of sucking so hard that the powder shot suddenly up your nose and made you cough and sneeze at once.

A shiny little hammer lay always to hand by the tin trays of hard and creamy caramel or cinder toffee, waiting to be tapped into bite-sized chunks, weighed carefully into paper bags and sealed with that deftly knowing twist. Half the fun of purchase was watching the old hobbit dame as she dipped her little tin shovel deliberately into the delicacy of your choice - trickling the contents ever more slowly into the scale pan, until the last few sweets seemed to poise for ever on the edge before dropping to your gain - then emptying the pan into a paper cone (or a square bag for those affluent enough for more than a ha’porth.)

Each of them spent rather more pence than he intended and came away with full pockets, savouring his flavour of choice; Sam chewing on cinder toffee, Frodo wincing at lemon sharpness, and Pippin already wearing rather more evidence of his sherbet than might have been thought possible - with the string tail of a sugar mouse dangling mournfully as he bit off its head. Frodo had persuaded him at last to save the gobstopper until he returned to The Smials, when he would have someone with whom to share and compare its colours.

Another diversion Frodo and Sam had yet to enjoy this year was concealed within a second sheeted area, a propped board showing just a few of the animal wonders to be seen within. Pippin was dancing his excitement with never a thought for possible danger as he waited for Frodo to pay their entry fee. Sam hoped but rather doubted that his solemn assurance - that he would not stray from their sight - might be entirely relied upon.

No matter how many times you saw them, a fascination remained with creatures that were so very different from those to be found within the Shire. Here the animals were bigger or brighter, not a few of them dangerous, all having the attraction of the unfamiliar. You simply had to come back, year on year, if only to convince yourself that your memory weren’t playing tricks on you since last time.

The hooded snake - often disappointingly somnolent when Sam had visited in the past - reared up now within its cage, tongue flickering in time to the portentous sway of its body. So threatening, compared with the slow worm he sometimes found regarding him sleepily from the warmth of the compost heap - or even with the adder, poisonous if its bite weren’t treated right quick, though rarely seen and thankfully so; mostly in open places and on warmer, sandier soils than obtained around Hobbiton. This hooded kind could kill a hobbit in seconds, he’d heard, and it didn’t look shy or retiring neither, but rather quarrelsome. He remembered with relief also being told that it had had its poison removed in some way, when it had been not much more than worm-size. He’d not have liked to see anyone to try it now, he thought, for the thing were a good bit longer than most hobbits were tall. The other snakes here, in varying sizes, colours and patterns, weren’t poisonous at all, he understood, though there were one or two as might catch you in their coils all unawares and squeeze the breath right out of you, if you weren’t awake to such twisty wiles.

They stood to watch the ponderous movement of a huge tortoise as it trundled intently around the edge of its straw bale enclosure. It was bigger, even, than the platter up at Bag End that was used for serving the whole sucking pig at Yule. Somehow Sam was just the quicker to stop Pippin from falling into the makeshift pen when he leaned too far, wanting to knock on the poor thing’s shell ‘to see what it sounds like’. It probably had more than enough of that over the days of the Show, he explained to the aggrieved lad, rapping one knuckle firmly on his head to show how irritating it must become. Whatever the creature’s feelings in the matter, its feet were furnished with long and pointed claws likely to inflict a fair bit of damage on any small hobbit they encountered, by accident or no. Sam blushed and looked away at Frodo’s warm smile of thanks for the timely rescue and admonition of his cousin.

A new attraction, which awed Pippin into a silence longer than Sam could ever remember, was a smooth brown cat with ears of black - long, hairy tufts waving high above their tips. Behind sturdy bars - and a roped-off space too, for good measure - it yawned and stretched, so very like Sam’s favourite tabby that kept the mice from his stored seed in the shed up at Bag End. It had the same habit too, as it licked one paw, of tugging for a moment at some morsel caught beneath a claw, exactly as Whisper did in tidying up after a meal. She was no longer the wisp of a starveling she had once been - her rotundity (even when no longer in kitten) a matter of pride for Sam - but she would be tiny indeed in face of such a magnificent creature. For this cat’s head reached above Sam’s waist and he wondered very much at the careless petting its guardian reached to give it now. Such animals were commonly used for hunting in their own far off land, the Traveller said, and he had hunted this one often and successfully. Out in the wilder places of the Shire and only for rabbits and birds and the like, he added hastily when adult hobbits all around frowned at the thought of so huge a predator loose where livestock - and worse still, the wide-eyed youngsters now watching this fascinatingly large pussycat, not a few pleading to stroke it - might become prey.

And she was not only bigger but far more vocal than Whisper, whose miaou was almost soundless, her purr rather rusty, and her most endearing trait the peremptory little Prrp! she gave when wanting attention. She could snarl and spit with the best of them when needed, though - Sam had seen her face down Farmer Wembdon’s dog a time or two from the vantage point of a wall. This cat seemed to hiss or purr continously - with the occasional growl thrown in - at different pitches; like an over-filled kettle on the stove, and with as little hostile intent, it seemed. The way her Traveller hissed and chirruped back at her, they made Sam feel to be left out of a private conversation.

The same blue-grey parrot was there, chattering away from its perch - as bright, friendly and talkative as Sam recalled from days when he had been one of the enthralled youngsters grouped around it, asking it questions, oohing and giggling when the answers were or were not at all appropriate. But further along was another bird, a new one - larger, louder and with plumage that was unbelievably multi-coloured. It too could talk, though its utterances were not the cheerful if undirected offerings of its drabber relative. Its lasting appeal seemed mainly to older hobbits, and at first Sam wondered why this should be, when it was so brightly feathered. But this bird spoke at its own behest or not at all; hunched on its perch it eyed its audience, Sam thought, looking for all the Shire like a crotchety old gaffer, sat in the chimney corner and finding complaint everywhere. Now he thought about it, that testy Shut the door, lad, you think I’m made of firing? sounded very much like his own Gaffer; the tone of You’ll be sorry, mark my words! so lugubriously familiar that he had to look to Frodo, to see if he’d the same thought. By the gleam in his eye he had, of course, though neither of them spoke a word of it as they shared their laughter.

Then, from behind them came a sudden upsurge of noise, shocked Oh!s and some giggling. Each of them became instantly aware of the fact that Pippin was holding neither Sam’s hand nor Frodo’s. It was all too obvious that to find him they need only take the direction from which the hubbub was coming. The spectacle that was attracting so much attention was indeed Pippin, now sitting comfortably cross-legged behind the bars of one of the cages. It belonged to a small, chittering monkey, and they appeared to be playing copycat faces, though she seemed less pleased with his company than he with hers, for she alternated her chitters with bouts of rattling from bar to bar in a most possessive manner.

‘It could have been worse, sir!’ Sam said placatingly, ten minutes later.

‘It could? And how, exactly, might that be? And would I have survived the embarrassment?’ Frodo asked with a groan, completely mortified at having had to reclaim the cousin onto whose shirt he was now holding onto with a grip almost tight enough to tear even such sturdy fabric. The Traveller in charge had made him swear not to leave hold of Pippin for a single second until they were well clear of the menagerie for, he said, he’d not be held responsible for the safety of a lad who could manipulate a locked door that way.

‘Well, it could have been that big cat’s cage!’ Sam said, not without a shiver at the thought; though knowing Pippin, he wouldn't have been entirely surprised to see the beast roll onto its back and beg a tummy-tickle of him.

Frodo shivered too, probably at the thought of reporting to Paladin Took the untimely demise of his only son and heir - and that after three daughters - Sam guessed.

‘Pippin!’ Frodo said now, as Pippin gave a particularly vigorous squirm. ‘Pippin, if you don’t behave yourself, I shall have no alternative other than to return you to your Mama.’ He sighed, knowing that Pippin didn’t really believe that his cousin would carry out so underhand a threat.

Sam, with possibly a nearer appreciation of what pressure might best be brought to bear on the young, said, ‘No need to do that, Mr Frodo, sir!’

His companions stared at him, Pippin with approval bordering on glee, Frodo in disbelief.

Sam let his left eyelid flicker the tiniest of winks as he went on, ‘No, sir. We can just bob along to Uncle Andy’s stall, and our Ham’ll find us a spare bit of rope and knock up a set of reins for Master Peregrin in no time at all. We’ll not lose him then!’

Frodo somehow managed not to laugh at the outrage on Pippin’s face. ‘My dear Sam - what a splendid notion!’

‘No!’ Pippin said loudly, with a scowl that might have done credit to an extremely disgruntled tortoise. ‘I am a big hobbit now! Only babies have reins!’

‘Well, Master Pippin,’ Sam's tone was all reason, ‘if Mr Frodo thought you was growed up enough to trust, he wouldn’t need to bother with them, now would he?’

‘I am grown up!’ Pippin insisted in a voice which had more than a little of the sulks about it.

‘In that case,’ Frodo said smoothly, ‘I am sure there will be no need for any such thing - will there, Pippin?’

‘No, Frodo,’ he replied dutifully, less sulk and more relief, now. ‘I’ll be good, truly I will. As good as-as good as Sam!’

This time Frodo did laugh aloud. ‘I’ll not look for that in you, scamp - you couldn’t manage that if you lived to be as old as Uncle Bilbo!’

‘Why?’ Pippin demanded - the irritating reflex question with which so many hobbit faunts were wont to wear down the patience of their guardians.

‘Because-because Sam is the best hobbit there has ever been!’ Frodo said quickly, grabbing Pippin’s hand and pulling him toward the next exhibit.

Sam stopped where he was for the minute, not rightly sure what Frodo had meant by that. That Sam was too good - smug and self-righteous, perhaps? He hadn’t said it like that, though - he said it as though it were a good thing to be, and Sam must hold to that thought.

~~~

Chapter 16: Show Day the Second - Evening

Chapter 14 was here and the story began with The Prologue

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