Fic: The Grand Annual Four Farthings Show - G to NC17 20/?
Happy Birthday,
Bilbo and Frodo!
Title of Part: GAFFS - Show Day the Third - Late Morning (20/?)
Summary: In which toffee apples prove more discomposing than expected, a promise is honoured and a nap taken
Rating: *invites you to guess*
A/N: Please note that the toffee apples are the real thing - the English variety, properly coated in a bright red sugar syrup, which sets hard; readers should disabuse their minds of the pallidly flabby versions to be found elsewhere!
For those completely unfamiliar with Sheepdog trials, this clip should give a fair idea of what Meg and Til were up to
Although trade at the stall was brisk and despite Bilbo’s warning, there were still plenty left on the wide, oiled baking sheets; shiny red chests puffed out in chubby rows, their sticks standing tall with an irregular smartness.
They reminded Sam more than a little of the Review of Shirriffs and Bounders, last Overlithe. Hosted by each Farthing in turn, once in the four years, the parade and feast were not only an opportunity for appreciation and thanks; they made it possible for local hobbits to meet all the new recruits to bounding as seemed the more needed with each passing year. When they lined up bashfully to receive the Mayor’s three official cheers, in varying degrees of height and girth, their staves had provided just such individual notes. Standing rather taller than its owner, each one slanted in a different direction - always at complete odds with the distinctive feather in his cap.
‘I wonder if I should get one for Bilbo,’ Frodo said aloud as he accepted his reward - its stick at a decidedly jaunty angle - from Sam. ‘At least, I don’t wonder so much about buying one as about having to carry it around until next we see him. Even well-wrapped in greaseproof,’ he paused with a smile for the stallholder, who was poised to do just that, ‘I can still see myself getting rather sticky! Would it be possible for me to pay for it and collect it later, should you think? And if I don’t come for it by the time you have packed all away, then I forfeit all claim to it!’
It was an eminently satisfactory solution on both sides, and they left the stall carrying only a single apple apiece.
‘There’s a trick to getting through the toffee and into the fruit,’ Sam said, ‘without having to stretch your mouth so wide it looks like a barn door - if I could only remember it!’
Frodo raised his brows. ‘Perhaps we are too old to really enjoy these?’
‘You speak for yourself, sir,’ Sam retorted. ‘It’ll come back to me, just you wait!’ He turned his attention to the sticky confection as Frodo watched with interest.
The coating was brittle, crisp and red, the promised treat thickly hidden, but Sam was not to be defeated. He licked exploratively around the widest part of the apple, savouring the dark, smoky taste, then laved back and forth across the flat top. Putting out his tongue, he pushed in to circle beneath the solid ridge where the toffee had run down and set hard upon the tray. Though it melted a little under the heat of his attack, gentling to his touch, still it refused him entry.
Sam licked and dabbed and nibbled, turning the stick this way and that in his hand, until his strong white teeth broke inward at last. As the fresh juice flooded into his mouth, cutting through the candied sweetness, he sucked it down greedily, with a ‘Mnnn!’ of appreciation, turning to share his enjoyment with Frodo. But Frodo’s eyes flicked suddenly down to his own apple, as if it were a thing completely new to him, and all Sam could see were thick dark lashes on very pink cheeks, and nostrils flaring as if he had just run hard and was short of breath.
His own enthusiasm for the treat suddenly dimmed by entirely different cravings, Sam croaked, cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Aren’t you going to eat yours, Mr Frodo?’
‘What? Oh! Yes. Of course.’ Frodo lifted the toffee apple to his mouth - and Sam knew at once that he had to look away.
He pretended to a sudden overwhelming interest in what might be going on in the Show ring. But it transpired, when his vision cleared of rosy lips and an incipiently active tongue, that the current event - at this end, at any rate though Sam could see a line of hobbits shooting at the wand on the far side (and archery would have been infinitely preferable in this present predicament, he was soon to realise); no, the nearest event was actually the grand final in which a pair of hobbits was battling it out for the title of Champion Wrestler. The ring within a ring was raised high - on a pair of wagons connected by planks, wider and squarer than he and Frodo had used for the Blindfold Breakfast - so that the combatants were clearly visible, sweat-covered skin catching the light as they strained to and fro within each other’s grasp.
More than that, they were exceedingly audible. Sam had never before appreciated how very evocative such breathy panting and effortful moans could be (not that appreciate was quite the right word, here).
It was most fortunate that, at that very moment and from somewhere quite close behind, there came distraction and reprieve in one: a loud and prolonged sort of splash, a brief, waiting kind of silence, and then a despairing cry.
‘Oh, Pippin!’ exclaimed a distinctly feminine, rather exasperated and definitely Tookish voice, though Sam couldn’t yet tell the sisters apart by that alone.
Seized by the same curiosity as many another hobbit, Frodo and Sam exchanged grins of relief that they need do no more than observe. They made their way across the aisle to the Catch-a-duck stall, where Frodo had won the handy little notebook, and Pippin had yesterday fished away several pence all unsuccessfully. Such was the scene of the present catastrophe, though no-one seemed quite sure how it could have happened. There were well-marked barriers that customers were not supposed to cross - a nearer and lower one for youngsters, it was true - but still, Pippin and the vast washtub should never actually have met except from opposite ends of a rudimentary fishing rod. And normally, Pippin would have avoided so large a body of water as an instrument of torture for small and grubby hobbitlads.
But the plain fact was that meet they did - in some hurried fashion witnessed by none, but which from the evidence had been something of a forceful and determined collision. It had left the one severely depleted, with a definite fringe of widely scattered infant ducks, and caused the other rather to resemble some half-drowned animal of a sort that had bright green eyes and peered wonderingly through curls now more mud- than sand-coloured (in drench-wet-through shirt and smallclothes).
Summoned by some awareness known only to a mother, Mistress Eglantine appeared, to strip her son swiftly down and sweep him up into the folds of a vast towel. She was used to this, Sam realised, even expecting it - hence the towel. Perhaps not the exact event as it had occurred - and was even now being annotated in great (and imaginative) detail by the hobbit who was reporting on the Show for the Hobbiton Advertiser & Bywater Times - but she had been on the alert. Only the manner of its happening could be a surprise - that a mishap should occur at all was scarcely a shock now that Pippin was rising ten. And considering how long had been the interval of quiet - it was, after all more than a day since the incident of the spots - Sam was also unsurprised.
The garrulously worried hobbit in charge of the stall was reassured over and again that it was no fault of hers; that any blame must actually lie with the lad’s sisters who it seemed - and quite contrary to all accepted practice - had taken their eyes from him for longer than a few seconds at a time; and that anyway, something of the kind was only to be expected of Pippin. She had just been the unlucky recipient of his attention this time. Mr Paladin produced his wallet and paid over a mutually agreeable sum in compensation, since Mistress Delverson could scarcely fill so large a tub again in time to profit from it at all, before the Show was over for that day and for the year.
It appeared then that, for some odd reason, the usual basket of clothes had come already to the end of its resources. Pippin would have to be dressed - like a complete shab-rag as Pervinca put it loudly and with some shame - in yesterday’s filthy shirt and in breeches that were not much better.
As Sam and Frodo watched, however, Verbena Hurcombe tentatively approached the group with Ranly securely in tow. She made an offer of some kind which seemed to be gratefully accepted, and guardianship of the lad passed firmly into Took hands. Verbena hurried off then, leaving her brother to stare wide-eyed and obviously extremely impressed by the devastation Pippin had achieved.
Sam closed his eyes for a second against the imagined havoc that would surely ensue were the two to join forces. The combination in friendship of a finely developed talent for unintended destruction, with a single-minded - and often successful - determination upon absolute freedom was not a thought to be taken lightly. When he opened them again, they met Frodo’s. The watery interlude had enabled each to finally dispose of his toffee apple in relative calm, and what passed between now them was mostly relief, that nothing like that had happened while they had charge of Pippin (the incident of the monkey being scarcely worth a mention); with some amusement, and a not on our watch satisfaction that bordered on smugness.
The bell echoed out across the field, then, and a hobbit appeared, just inside the gate nearest to where they were standing. Possessed of an extremely impressive set of lungs, he made a bold and not entirely unsuccessful attempt to inform the entire Show-field of the imminent commencement of the Supreme Sheepdog Championship.
Frodo and Sam looked at each other. ‘Til!’ they said in chorus, reminded of the unfulfilled promise to watch his and Meg’s attempt to improve upon their showing of last year. They had missed the heats - they must not miss the final.
A small but interested stream of hobbits was making for the outermost of the GAFFS fields. Not an easy one to mow, it was kept as pasture, for it dropped steadily down to a shallow beck that ran away toward Combe Bottom. It was a good test for a dog - and of the shepherd’s control - for the steep slope gave the sheep every excuse to break into a run should the dog not have settled them properly.
Beyond the beck lay a small spinney, a drystone wall marking its boundary, though the wall showed several tumbledown gaps in its length. Sam smiled a little at remembrance of his younger self, watching the trials here for the first time. He’d been quite prepared to up and offer his services at walling, after all was done (for he’d a fair hand at it, even then), before he realised that the wall had actually been deliberately dismantled in places. White-painted posts clearly marked the passage through and back again that the sheep must be made to take.
Here at the top of the slope with a good view of the course, a long line of straw bales was thoughtfully provided as seating for spectators. Frodo and Sam claimed one for themselves at the farthest and quietest end.
The names of all six finalists, hobbit and dog, were chalked already on the board, and Til and Meg would run next to last. The competitors were all gathered to wait their turns a fair way from where Sam and Frodo sat, but Til saw them there, and smiled and waved back his thanks for their dumbshow of good luck wishes.
From being a little lad, Sam had watched shepherds and their dogs work the sheep, and the fascination had never yet failed. He still found it remarkable that a hobbit could whistle commands to his dog even a long hillside away, and a wide scatter of dots would be gathered neatly into a curdled mass of white; more remarkable still that the dog could so easily translate sounds meaningless to Sam and set a palely bobbing ribbon flowing over the rough ground - a fluid blur on its way to exactly where the shepherd needed them. A waving tail and lolling tongue told clearly then, not only of a job well done, but of one that had been enjoyed and had left him or her ready for more.
Word was given then, and the first pair began their run. Sam watched intently as the dog streaked off at its master’s command and yet dropped to a crouch in an instant to his whistle. He admired again the control with which a dog must wriggle forward so cautiously - slink, drop, slink, drop - so careful not to panic the ewes in the all-important first contact.
Though he’d watched many a trial in his time, still Sam couldn’t always tell more than the obvious things for which the judges would mark a pair down. A scatter at any time must clearly mean the loss of maybe a handful of points; an indirect line of travel that wavered uncertainly along rather than moving steadily forward would drop at least one and maybe more; a miss at the gate, only three of the five sheep going through the gap, perhaps, and a couple would be deducted; and an awkward sheep in the group was almost guaranteed to cost, unless the dog had a strong eye and the patience of an elf. But the really fine distinctions between one dog’s work and another’s - on which a championship such as this must rest - still eluded him. He suspected that, like the judges, you had to be a shepherd and simply know; much as there were things he understood about his plants that only another gardener could ever truly appreciate.
After each section of the run was completed, the judges would signal to the hobbit in charge of scoring, and the points for that part were written in the appropriate square on the board. When the final penning was achieved, the overall score was quickly totalled and credited to the competitor’s name.
With the second pair about to begin its run, Sam heard a loud yawn and turned to see Frodo slither gracefully from their bale. He settled on the grass at Sam’s feet, back leaning against the straw, legs straight out in front of him.
‘Sorry!’ he said, around another yawn. ‘I know this is dreadful of me, but Til’s turn won’t be for a while yet, and sitting down has reminded me how tired I am after last night. I simply can’t keep my eyes open any longer. Wake me in time, will you, Sam?’ He wriggled a little, to get comfortable, and his head began an inexorable sag downward to his chest.
‘O’course, sir. You get a few winks in while you can - you’ve earned ’em, one way and another!’ Sam agreed, distracted by an almost constant whistling from the new competitor; that’d cost him a point or two if Sam weren’t mistaken - the dog didn't look, even to an outsider, to need that sort of niggling at him all the time. But then such sounds lost all significance as Frodo’s nodding head dipped lower and nearer, and came to rest at last against Sam’s thigh. His attention snapped at once to the warm weight, and the fall of shining hair that spread softly along his trouser leg.
Before he could think better of what he was doing - and stop himself - Sam reached a tentative finger to stroke it. Frodo surely wouldn’t feel it - hair was not sensitive, after all. But at his touch Frodo seemed to nestle even closer, and Sam saw a sleepy smile curl at the one visible corner of his mouth. Sam threw caution to the winds, then, and rested his whole hand on the darkly silken mass, stroking almost imperceptibly, just above his collar. Frodo made a small noise, a quietly contented ‘Mmm…’ that faded into slow and steady breathing.
Sam liked the thought of sitting guard over his master as he slept; he'd definitely have a sharp word for any who tried to wake him afore it were needful, that were for sure. Tenderness welled up within him, even stronger than the desire aroused by Frodo’s mouth being where it was, slightly open, very pink and damp against the fabric of Sam’s breeches; by the huff of Frodo’s breath flowing sweet and warm, right through the weave onto truly receptive skin.
But Frodo would have a damp bottom when he awoke, no matter how dry the grass might seem, Sam thought with a rueful smile, gently drawing aside a wisp of hair that seemed, from the intermittent twitch, to be tickling at Frodo’s nose. And that were aside from the cross-hatched pattern he’d likely have imprinted on the smooth skin of his cheek.
He found that he could still appreciate seeing the dogs put though their paces. The steadily whistled progression of their moves formed a soothing background to his thoughts of Frodo, and of what Sam hoped this affectionate leaning might mean. He’d needed to sleep, that were for sure; but he had chosen to sleep tucked up against Sam. It might be true that Sam’s leg must feel a lot less spiky to rest on than a bale of barley straw, but he doubted that were the reason. He was fairly sure he understood it, now, and allowed himself to float in a daydream of resting quietly with Frodo like this, maybe one day when they would earn their sleepiness together, in a place more private and an activity far more intimate.
But all too soon the fourth dog was attempting the final task - the Pen - with his small band of sheep. Til’s turn would come just as soon as this pair’s marks were totted up and chalked on the board for all to see.
‘Mr Frodo? Sir?’ Sam put a hand to his shoulder and gave a small shake. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but you did say…’
For a moment Frodo did not respond, but then he rolled back his head - still leaning against Sam - and opened his eyes with almost the same wonderfully drowsy smile he’d given after his impromptu nap on their way here. Almost - it being upside down now, of course - and Sam was almost sure this one was truly meant for him. He’d started to lose himself in it when a burst of clapping brought back to him the reason he’d woken Frodo and earned himself such a smile. Unfortunately, it also brought an awareness that the applauders on the next bale or two along might turn their attention closer to hand while there were naught else much to see. That softly lingering smile, unfurling from sleep to greet Sam alone, and the warmth in Frodo’s eyes - these were too precious to share with any casual onlooker.
He swallowed. ‘It’s Til’s turn next, sir, with Meg - and you said you’d not want to miss it.’
‘No, indeed!’ Frodo said, still with a yawn. He hauled himself up from the ground, plucking at breeches that now clung clammily to his seat and the backs of his thighs. ‘Errgh! You'd think I'd know better!’
Sam gave a sympathetic grin as Frodo sat upon their bale once more, and forbore to mention the warm pink marking, so plain upon his nearer cheek. There were naught as could be done about it, choose how; and until it faded, Sam would enjoy a secret satisfaction that - if only in a small and very temporary way - he’d marked Frodo with a part of himself.
A new cluster of sheep was assembled now, down by the beck; the hobbit in charge of them raised his hand and waved. Both Frodo and Sam turned to see Til, waiting at the top of the course for the judges’ word to begin. He was looking all around with a slightly anxious expression, and both of them sent him the thumbs up. He smiled back, a little, but his anxiety did not ease until there suddenly, hurrying a careful way through the spectators, Sam saw the one he sought. Til raised his head at once and looked right at Rafe - a long look that passed steadily between them, telling of allegiance, of encouragement and of love.
Well, Sam thought, that’d be worth at least two steps up in the placings, if it were me, and my Frodo’d given me a look like that!
And then he realised that, on the night of the skittling, Frodo had given him just such a look, along with that Good luck! raise of his ale mug. Sam had not seen what Frodo tried to tell him, being all too tied up in his jealousy that Frodo should be torn ’twixt friendship and the love of a lass. Sam, you ninnyhammer - how could you have missed that? Small wonder Frodo should seem so hurt when Sam gave the game to Betony!
But a voice called ‘Off!’, and Til was already saying ‘Come bye!’ to Meg.
She was ready and eager - knowing exactly what they were here for; away she sped to the left, taking the slope in a wide arc, tight to the ground. Drawing level with her handful of ewes, she cast them one swift measuring glance, and ran carefully on to come at them from behind, dropping to her belly at Til’s whistle.
‘That’s the Outrun?’ Frodo asked, looking at the scoreboard where it was the first category for T. Oldacre + Meg.
‘Aye sir. The dog has to get down to the sheep and behind them, without alarming them. They know she’s coming, o’course, she just has to seem not at all like a threat.’ They watched briefly as the hobbit in charge of scoring drew a careful 19 in the square that waited to receive it.
‘Out of twenty? Why did they lose a point?’ Frodo asked curiously, but Sam had no idea.
At Til’s whistle, Meg inched toward her ewes in a silent slink, and before they could realise it, they were already gently on the move toward him.
‘And collecting them up like that was the Lift,’ Frodo said, more in confirmation than question, as a chalked 10 was awarded.
‘Full marks for it, too! It can be tricky, can that - one of the dogs that ran while you was asleep somehow managed to panic his ewes right from the start. They skittered off at such a pace and in so many directions, there were no settling ’em even when the poor dog had got ’em together again.’
‘How embarrassing for the shepherd!’
Sam nodded. He’d squirmed a bit on the poor lad’s behalf, himself; not a hobbit he knew, but he’d felt for him nonetheless. Still, he weren’t so old - maybe not even quite out of his tweens, Sam guessed - and nervousness only to be expected. He must have the makings of a real shepherd, though, or he’d not have got through the heats at all. There’d be many more trials for him and his dog, other times and places - if none quite so prestigious as at GAFFS. ‘For the dog, too, sir - you could tell he felt just as bad about it. They’d to withdraw, once it were obvious the sheep had got too flighty for points to be won without a struggle, and even then they’d not have stood a chance against the rest.’
Ah now, but here was a problem for Meg, too. She’d been unlucky enough to draw a balky ewe in last year’s final - and it seemed that history was bent on repeating itself.
One of the five, a large Southfolk Blackface, suddenly declined to be part of the steady uphill walk. First she dawdled a little, then dared to turn and face Meg - in a direct challenge to the dog’s authority. Even at this distance Sam could see the clash of their wills. But last year, Meg had been young and inexperienced in the ways of defiant sheep; now, she had the confidence that comes of much practice, and Til’s guiding whistle was all the spur she needed. She didn’t rise from her crouch, didn’t even seem to move - just set her eye against the ewe’s defiance. And without any outward sign at all, challenge, rebuttal and Meg’s ascendancy were plain to see - for the heavy ewe backed slowly away from the confrontation and, however unwillingly, rejoined the group still moving to where Til awaited them.
‘Thic were well done, very well done - there’s many a dog as’d’ve teken a grip on thic’ewe.’ A loudly knowledgeable voice seemed to speak the quiet approval that rumbled along the line of spectators. Sam knew that for a dog to take hold was an admission of failure, and marked down most severely. But then the voice added with a gloomy kind of relish, ‘’Er’ll ’ave more trouble yet wi’ thic’un, you mark my words - and she’s one for sheddin’, an’ all!’
‘Shedding?’ Frodo looked his question at Sam.
‘Aye, sir - naught to do with garden sheds, though! See the two with red collars? Shepherd and dog together have to shed - cut out - one or other of ’em, right away from the group, just afore they pens ’em for the finish. Just now - up until they come round that post - and Til, o’course,’ Sam added, since Til was standing so close to it that to circle one without the other would have been a trickier move than could be expected of any dog, ‘up to then, it’s the Fetch but as soon as they pass that, they're into the Drive.’ Points for Meg’s Fetch put 17 onto the board.
‘Out of?’
‘Twenty,’ Sam said. ‘I wonder why? I’d not have said any other dog could deal with that ewe better nor what Meg did.’
Frodo shook his head in equal disbelief and turned back to watch the Drive. At Til’s whistle, Meg sent her ewes steadily downhill, weaving smoothly to and fro behind them to bend their path toward and straight through a set of widely spaced hurdles.
Obediently then, they leapt the stony bed of the beck, and climbed the slope to one of the tumbledown gaps Sam had worried about in his youth. Here was a real chance for things to go amiss, for Meg must send them through the one and a goodish way along the far side of the wall, before bringing them back through a second - and there were several others they should not take. For that short while they were out of Til’s sight and he must trust completely to her initiative, whistling the forward command, for encouragement. When the small band of ewes appeared again - when and where they should be, moving easily forward and still under proper control - Frodo and Sam were not the only ones to let out a sigh of relief apiece.
Sam glanced across to where Rafe stood, his gaze flicking constantly from Til to Meg and back, and he could almost feel the silent encouragement willing them on. Til would not dare take his mind from the task to return the look, but he knew Rafe were there for him every step of the way, and that'd be what mattered. He’d looked more settled, Sam thought, more confident from the very minute Rafe arrived. He and Meg were doing right well so far, and there weren’t that much further to go now, as he whistled her to bring them steadily back up the slope to where the wide shedding ring was marked out on the grass by regularly spaced heaps of bright sawdust.
It had maybe been going a bit too smoothly, Sam thought apprehensively then - for they’d dropped nobbut a couple of points on the Drive and the figures on the board looked right promising. Now though, just as Til brought Meg around, her sheep collected neatly within the ring, the rebellious one turned and stamped at the bitch, threatening an escape that would rapidly take her sisters with her.
‘Never seen a ewe do that afore, without she’d lambs on her!’ Sam said in a worried tone - a disastrous downhill scatter being all too likely, were she allowed to get away with it.
‘What did I tell ’ee?’ demanded the knowledgeable one, loudly. ‘Now us’ll see what she’m made of!’
But Meg was made of better stuff than that doubting voice gave her credit for. She crouched, staring without the trace of a blink. The ewe looked around her and shifted uneasily; she took a slow step back, and then another. One more and she had capitulated completely. Meg knew it, and there was triumph in her wiggle forward to neatly cut the awkward one out from the bunch. She held the ewe aside at Til’s command, then returned her to the group, gathering them all now toward the Pen.
Til walked over to take up the rope and swing open the gate. He looked quietly confident standing there, but Sam knew him well enough to see the tension in him - and not without reason. Anyone who’d watched trials at all had seen more than one pair that’d looked to have a rosette within their grasp defeated by this last, essential manoeuvre. A hobbit - even with the rope in one hand and his crook in t’other - were at best a leaky barrier to guide sheep anywhere if they’d a mind to escape.
For a single moment, it looked as if that same ewe might cause a problem once again, but Meg gave her no time to set up a further confrontation. She circled the other four behind the rebel and sent them forward, leaving her no choice but to lead the way meekly into the pen. Til swung the gate shut fast behind all five and bent to give Meg a rough hug before coming up to see his score on. For now, at least, he led the board.
Sam saw Rafe’s wide, proud smile as Til reached him. The hug they shared was about as rough as Meg’s had been, and swifter, but Sam could tell that there’d be a proper celebration later, when they’d time and darkness in which to share it. For now, Rafe melted from sight as Til’s family came forward with their congratulations.
‘Tilsom Oldacre’s none so bad a shepherd,’ the doubter pronounced judiciously now, from somewhere close at hand, ‘and maybe he does deserve the top mark as yet. But Si Tidmarsh has worked the sheep, day in day out, these fifty year an’ more. The lad’ll not beat that.’
Those years showed on Shepherd Tidmarsh, his thatch of dark hair well-laced with silver as he stepped forward with his dog; Bob moved like a youngster, though, and that was what was needed. Each of them knew the job inside out, and they gave a demonstration of control and expertise that was quite simply unbeatable. When they had done, with an almost perfect score, Til was the first to congratulate him on his win. It was clear that he could feel no shame in coming second to an absolute master of the craft.
The noon bell had rung out some time ago, but not a hobbit had left the field, too engrossed in the contest before them. Now, though, the applause for the Champion pair was heartily brisk, as spectators and competitors alike gathered themselves rapidly back toward the main Show-field and wherever lunch awaited them. There was barely time for more than a quick word of congratulation with Til - and a promise to meet him later at the Little Show - before Frodo and Sam must hurry off to find Bilbo. Even if he made a start without them, Frodo assured Sam, the picnic basket he’d set in the shade of the judges’ tent that morning had been quite promisingly heavy, so there should be plenty left. It seemed a very long time since the toffee apples, and longer still since Mrs Smallpeace’s splendid second breakfast.
~~~~~
Chapter 21: Show Day the Third - Late Morning
Chapter 19 was here and the story began with The Prologue