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Artifondo's eyelids were drooping contentedly down when Ginger returned with the Cook's imperious summons. They produced quite some consternation in the dreamy Hobbit tween.
"Bring a few of my chokes? Ah...but..."
As far as he knew, he hadn't a single vegetable on him. His father had been sure that the fame of the Dwellover Artichokes alone would be enough.
"That name, Fellover, m'boy, will get you into a king's counting-house. You won't need to disturb a single one of my crops."
Ursula had thought differently. "Father, Vinca Bunce is hard as old boots. She'll be sure to demand some guarantee of quality. Artifondo's enough of a dolt even when he bears produce...if he comes in empty-handed, well..."
But Pellinco Dwellover had stuck firmly to his position. "I won't lessen my yield nor demean the Dwellover renown. Besides, Fellover's a good lad really, aren't you?"
Artifondo rolled his eyes. He hadn't known what to say to that; for compared to his rascally, irresponsible little brother Gandrio he was indeed a "good lad". Then at last a memory clicked into place. Grizel, cunning little Grizel, had handed him a bundle as he left. It had completely slipped his mind...now he hurried over to where his cloak hung, ransacked it, and eventually produced the heavily swathed lump, hurriedly unwrapping it.
It was a large, perfectly shaped artichoke, filling his fist. Superb...if you liked that sort of thing. It grew slightly paler at is ages, which lended it a look almost of refinement. Somehow it had escaped being damaged during his fall. He couldn't recall what Pellinco called this strain. Wholesome Carbuncle, or something similarly ridiculous.
"Right," he said to Ginger in relief. "I'm ready to come with you." And he smiled; for he had had an idea, and he intended to present this "thistle" in a way that would be positively impossible to resist.
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