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Fordogrim wandered about the grounds of the Inn impatiently, wondering when his cart would arrive. He took an apple out of his pocket and began munching at it pensively. When it was gone he produced another, and then another, until three apple-cores were neatly piled beneath one of the many trees of the yard. Automatically his hand went back to his pocket but his disappointed fingers encountered only his trusty pocketknife. Now thoroughly dejected, the little fellow slumped to the ground beside the pile of apple-cores and waited.
He did not have to wait long, although it was not a cart full of his beer that relieved him of the burden, but a small hobbit lad who lounged by on the road looking as though he had little to do other than lounge. “Hoy there!” Fordogrim called. “What’s yer name then, lad?”
The boy perked out at him, “Pimple, sir! Pimple Boffin!”
“Well then, PimplesirPimple Boffin,” he replied playfully, “there’s a copper or two for you if you run down the road toward Hobbiton and give me word of a cart.”
“What cart, sir?”
“Well not just any cart, that’s for sure. My cart is what I mean. It’s a large blue cart with great green wheels and my two woolly-headed cousins Fatty and Gerdy Chubb will be a-driving it. Now run along now and let me know.”
“No need to run along, sir. I’ve just seen that cart not two minutes ago coming up the hill.” Fordogrim leapt to his feet and rushed to the boy, taking him by the hand and shaking it energetically.
“That’s fine news, my lad Pimple, fine news indeed. Here, have a shilling!” The boy looked at the coin in his hand in awe and ran away singing about the pies he would buy. At that very moment there hove into view the very same cart that Fordogrim had described driven by the very same cousins. The two large ponies, which he had neglected to describe, were tired after their journey but at the sight and smell of the Inn they lifted their legs with new energy. Fatty was the first to dismount from the cart, for despite his name he was a narrow and nimble fellow. “Fordo!” he cried, clasping his cousin by the shoulders. “I’m sure you had given up on us, but I told you we would be here this day.”
“Ay, and that you did my dear, that you did! And how was the journey?” They talked quickly about the trip from the Westfarthing and of the many trials of the road (including one broken axle and two missed meals). The three hobbits moved quickly about the cart unloading three of the casks that it bore and quickly setting out a trestle table in the middle of the yard. They put the casks upon it and with three quick knocks soon had taps in them. From under the seat Gerdy produced two whole racks of pewter mugs that clattered happily on the tabletop. When all was in order Fordogrim tilted his head to one side and appraised it. At his insistence the table had been set up at a height comfortable for himself leaving the beer only a foot’s breadth above the ground but he pronounced it capital. Grinning from ear to ear he turned toward the Inn.
The arrival of the cousins (and the ponies, who were looking at Fordogrim quite disheartened, wondering when they would be remembered and given some oats), along with the subsequent clatter had brought a fair crowd of curious faces to the windows of the Inn. Fordogrim bowed low to them all before speaking in his best tones. “Welcome and greetings to the people of Bywater!” he began formally. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Fordogrim Chubb of Gamwich and these are my cousins Fatty and Gerdy Chubb. We are brewers of the finest ales and beers, stouts and bitters in all the Westfarthing and we have come to these parts to demonstrate that our brews are worthy of your patronage. So for Today Only” he wanted this point to be particularly clear, “three of our best beers, Old Stout, Mellow Ale and – my particular favourite – Gamwich Gold will be yours absolutely free of charge! And when you find that these are the best beers as you’ve ever had, I hope that you’ll feel like telling your friends of Fordogrim Chubb, Brewer!”
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