[Imladris]

Olo strolled happily among the fields of the Shire. He glanced at the other hobbits, Brass and Hob and wondered if they enjoyed the walk. Olo frowned and pondered his muse. Did he really enjoy walking for for the soul delight of it? Or did he enjoy keeping a sharp eye out for profit? He shrugged. It didn't matter really.

The sky was blue above and flimsy white clouds were strewn across the firmament. The wind was light and brought the scent of bright flowers, the fetid scent of feritilizer, and...what was that? Olo's nose twitched. Tobbacco. Weed. Good weed. Olo licked his lips greedily and looked about him. A solitary hobbit hole dimpled the flat landside and a wisp of bluish grey smoke floated gently upwards and drifted to the east. The smoke was coming from behind the hole. "Come on, friends," said Olo, jerking his head towards the hobbit hole and trotting as fast as his fat carcass could carry him.

Rounding suddenly around the hole he came across a lone hobbit farmer, curls streaked with grey, his aged face creased with wrinkles and slightly sagging. Laugh wrinkles crinkled around his eyes and they were closed in a contentment that only a good smoke of good weed could bring.

Olo cleared his throat loudly and said, "Hello, mate. So just where did you get that weed, South Farthing by the smell?" The other two shirrifs grinned uneasily at the old farmer and shrugged slightly. Hob glared at his furry feet.

The old hobbit's eyes snapped awake and fear clouded them for an instant. "Oh, I had it around," he said carefully.

Olo nodded and pursed his lips. "Around? Well," he said, eyeing the man's pouch that was laid carefully upon an old rickety stool, "if it was just lyin' around, as you say, somebody must have put it there."

The old hobbit looked uncomfortable and winced slightly. He glared at Olo.

"And if somebody just put it there," Olo continued off handedly, "then the person who picked it up, that would be you, sir, would be obliged to give it back. Right?"

The hobbit nodded reluctantly. "But," Olo said, raising a finger and glancing innocently towards the sky, "that's rather hard for an old farmer like you who's busy workin' for Lotho and Sharkey, right? And that's were we shirrifs come in," said Olo, beaming brightly. "Hand the leaf over now, and we'll make sure we found the lawful owner."

The hobbit farmer hesitated and his hand went towards the weed protectively. "Now, now," Olo tutted, "you wouldn't want to be accused of stealin, now, would ye, mate?" The two hobbits glared at each other before the farmer, fuming, handed the pouch to Olo.

Underfoot, in turn, bowed his head and turning on his flabby feet said, "I thank ye, mate."