[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Ninny-headed children! Fordogrim settled himself back into his comfortable position on the cart and breathed deep the smells coming from Sarah’s cooking pans. The memory of the mushroom pie was still very much in his mind but he was looking forward to some eggs and bacon. His leg ached where Henry had crashed into him, but he found it difficult to be hard on the lad. Such a quiet fellow he mulled as he watched the young hobbit and his sister chase one another about. Takes after his father in that. And his grandmother. He quickly shied his mind away from thoughts of Prim. Every morning since she’d gone away, he had visited her grave to bid her hello and tend to the small garden that he’d planted over her. Every morning, that is, until today. He hoped that his friend Halfast would remember his promise to look in on Prim from time to time, and that he would take the opportunity to do so today.

Seizing his cane, the old hobbit pulled himself to his feet and hobbled over to Sarah. The pain in his leg was, if anything, worse than the day before, but after a night spent on the ground there wasn’t much else that he could have expected. Harold, of course, had tried to insist that Fordogrim sleep in the makeshift bed that he had contrived in the back of the cart, but the elderly hobbit had insisted on sleeping beside the fire where it would be warmer. As the stiffness in his hip refused to go away, he began to wonder if he had made the right choice after all. “Good morning to ye, Sarah,” he said as he got to the fire.

His daughter in law was busily frying the bacon but she looked up from her pan and said in a friendly tone, “And good morning to you Father Chubb. Did you sleep well last night?”

“Aye, that I did, though this old leg of mine mayhap could have got a better rest. That’s the thing about getting old, you see, your body parts sort of take on their own personalities. The whole trick is trying to keep everyone happy all at the same time, like in a family. But that can be cussedly hard at times.”

Sarah looked up at him again and smiled gently. “Yes, Father Chubb, that it can.” Fordogrim smiled back at her as best he could. He was feeling particularly well-disposed toward Sarah this morning, and not just because of the mushroom pie of the night before (which had been delicious) or the bacon this morning (which smelled almost done). Over supper, Harold and Sarah had told him the full story of their little adventure into the Forest and his surprise at what he now openly referred to as “My Sarah’s Surprising Grit” had only increased – as had his opinion of his son’s wife. He had also very much appreciated her asking him to help with the fire last night. It was the first time on this journey that he hadn’t been treated like an old invalid; in fact, as he had helped her put together the supper, it had occurred to him that among his whole family, it was only Sarah who did not treat him like an old hobbit. He wondered why he had never noticed that before…

Sarah interrupted his line of thought with a question. “Well, Father Chubb. You’ve been very quiet about our arrangement with the Whitfoots. What do you make of our May and Henry making a bit of money from looking after those children?”

Fordogrim assumed the thoughtful expression he used before pronouncing judgement, and if he noticed Sarah’s look of resignation, he pretended not to. “That’s a fine question, Sarah, and I’ll thank you for asking it of me – unlike some other folk, who never consider the opinion of an old hobbit like myself” and he glared at his son where he was working about the cart. “To be truthful, I’m not rightly sure what to think of it all. I’ve been a tenant on Whitfoot land most of my life and they’ve never given me reason to complain about ‘em. To turn around now and demand money of ‘em for something as we’d do as a favour for a friend, well, it seems not all fair, like. On the other hand, the Whitfoots have always been sharpish with their money. Old Mr Whitfoot now, he could be right tight-fisted with it, but even he could forgive a month’s late rent in a poor season if I had to ask it of him. The Young Mr Whitfoot seems to be a bit freer with the coins, but not much. I’ll bet you pennies to pebbles that if our Harold hadn’t a-thought to ask for pay, Young Mr Whitfoot would never have offered. And I’ll bet you double again that he never would a’ even thought of it himself!” The elderly hobbit fell into a reverie for a moment and his brow furrowed with thought. “I suppose, now that I think on it full, that it’s a good thing for the children to be gaining something more from this journey than a long walk away from home. And I daresay it will be quite an eye-opener for the Whitfoots to see that we Chubbs can’t be counted on to do as they think all the time!” Fordogrim planted his feet apart, and leaned heavily on his cane with both hands, indicating that he had given his Final Word On The Subject. Sarah hid the slight look of relieved amusement that played about her eyes. “At any rate,” Fordogrim said, “where’s that son of mine got to? And those children? I can tell by the smell of that there bacon that it’s ready to be eaten, and I can tell you that I’m a-ready to do the eating!”