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Sipping his ale and waiting amicably to see how much of the other lad’s ventures that individual cared to share, Jims watched the drunken hobbit with a mixture of amusement and appraisal as the little fellow helped himself to a cup of the barman’s mead. In Jims’ assessment, the hobbit was very close to being about as drunk as one can be and still be standing. Jims already felt sorry for the Halfling, knowing how ill he would be feeling come the morning. Cup in hand, the hobbit staggered a few steps and sat down heavily in the seat next to Jims.
Gazing at Jims as through a fog, the hobbit slurred out “Sorry, er . . . Jams is it?”
Jims eyebrows rose in surprise. Was it possible that he knew this little drunkard? One hobbit looked much like all the others to Jims, especially from his height from where he rarely saw much more of them than the tops of their curly heads. Bending forward and down a little to look more closely at the fellow’s face, Jims replied bemusedly, “It’s Jims actually, and do I know you?”
The hobbit eyes glanced off to the side in a glassy way, as he said somewhat indistinctly, “Sozzle m . . .mymy snotworlin today”, which Jims thought might have been meant as, “Sorry . . . my minds not working right today.” Not working indeed! And no wonder.
With an inward sigh, Jims realized that the barman in him would not rest peacefully even when it was not his place to interfere. But he had witnessed the little hobbit’s generous act of gifting his hat to the small hobbit child Jims had almost run over, and he felt more than a little sympathy and concern for the hobbit as he sat swaying gently in his seat beside Jims. He placed a steadying hand on his neighbor’s arm, saying in a friendly way, “Perhaps we are acquainted. Hobbits don’t frequent my father’s inn so often as they do Barleyman’s, but we’ve had more than a few pass through our doors. It’s the Rose & Thistle. Have you ever been to Bree?” As he spoke, Jims other hand moved slowly towards the hobbit’s cup, wondering if he could simply make it ‘disappear’ without causing a ruckus. Depending on their state of intoxication, it was a maneuver that sometimes worked with the more passive drunks. He kept his gaze on the hobbits face, hoping to keep his attention, and, of a sudden, it dawned on him that he did know this particular small one.
“Hairfoot? Hairfoot Doggins?” Jims’ eyebrows went even higher in surprise at this recognition.
Jims was acquainted ever so slightly with the Doggins clan and Songo, more commonly known as ‘Hairfoot’, was generally known as an exceptionally quiet, almost shy member thereof. There had been rumors of his “almost” doing in an orc, but no-one who knew Songo believed a word of it. Songo was not one who had a reputation for being a frequent patron of the various inns of Bree, and Jims’ knowledge of this particular hobbit was limited to no more than two or three times when the hobbit, along with other family members, had been to the Rose to deliver hay for the stable. Why was he then in Stock and how had he come to be so intoxicated?
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