Chapter 40. A Mysterious Expedition 

The winter darkness had not yet lifted when young Bilbo came out into the courtyard that separated the Smials proper from the outbuildings, including the stables. He shivered at the chill in the air that seemed to bite right through his layers of coverings, even when the wind stood still. In one sense, he was in luck; the darkness and the early hour meant the yard had not yet been swept clear of the new-fallen snow. Thus, by the light of the lantern hanging over the door, he could clearly make out the footprints of hobbits who'd left the Smials in the very early morning hours via this lower exit and crossed to the outbuildings. Dairymaids, he guessed, had left the smaller marks, as well as stable lads, perhaps.

Other footprints overlaid these – the prints of larger feet, Bilbo thought, his heart quickening. He'd chosen this minor entrance with thought and care. The shortest route from the Thain's private quarters to the outside led to the Great Door. However, the stairs that led down to the stones of the courtyard were likely to be treacherous in this weather. Why, it would be all too easy to slip and fall down the stairs – and end up dead and cold (instead of simply shivering cold)! Thus, this particular lower doorway, closest amongst its fellows to the Thain's apartments via either sloping corridors or, if one was in a hurry, a servants' staircase, was the logical choice for anyone who wished to venture outside after breakfasting with the Thain. 

At least, this was the solution the young Baggins had worked out. And the young Baggins had a very good head on his shoulders, though adults seldom said such a thing in his hearing, which would not have been good for him according to current thought on child-rearing.

Had his father and uncles left those larger footprints in the snow? There was only one way to find out.

Curiously enough, one group of larger footprints soon diverged from the streams of prints left by the workers heading towards the stables, byres, coops, and other outbuildings, including the solitary forge – a building set apart from the Smials proper and the other outbuildings to lessen the hazard of a fire breaking out. Smoke was already rising from the chimney of that building, grey-white against the still-dark sky. Bilbo shivered and rubbed his mittened hands together, wishing he could warm them in the heat coming off the fire there. This seemed the perfect weather to work in a smithy.

The snow underfoot shone with an unearthly light of its own, making the tracks clearly visible to the questing tween. The larger feet had definitely taken a westerly course, heading further into the wild backcountry of the Green Hills of Tookland, and Bilbo's heart leapt within him. If his conclusions were correct, his uncles (and father) had decided to go on foot to their destination rather than by pony.

Tooks were more directly descended from the ancient Fallohide clan and so were often taller and fairer than other hobbits – not all the Tooks, however. Some were smaller and fairer than the average Shire-dweller, which was often attributed (in hisses and whispers, of course) to a fairy ancestor. In any event, Bilbo's Tookish uncles were larger than average, including the size of their feet.

'It looks like I don't need a lantern after all,' Bilbo muttered to himself. He'd gone back and forth on the matter, finally deciding that bearing a lantern would be more trouble than it was worth. For one thing, should anyone in the party he was pursuing happen to look back and see his lantern, his uncles would likely send one of themselves – or worse, Bungo! – back to escort Bilbo to the Great Smials. Such an outcome would certainly not help Uncle Isen!

Despite the icy chill that threatened to freeze his blood within him, the young tween doggedly continued to follow the tracks through the early winter darkness and into the dawning. Bilbo walked, and walked, mile after mile, or so it felt to him. 'Surely you're overdramatising things!' he scolded himself, and more than once. 

At last, when he paused to catch his breath, he told himself severely, 'Why, you're only imagining that you've travelled halfway across Middle-earth, when the truth of the matter is a mile! Maybe two... Why, if it were so much further, they'd've taken ponies!' But pausing was worse than walking – he was immediately chilled to the bone, and so he plunged on again, with such vigour that his foot broke through the crust of ice lying hidden under the fresh-fallen snow, trapping him and bringing him down heavily upon the snowy ground. Under the assault, the ice crust broke further, leaving the tween floundering in a panic for a bone-chilling moment, at least until he realised that he hadn't been walking over a hidden pond or lake and fallen in – which would mean certain death! But no. This ice crust lay atop the layers of previous snows, thick enough to bear a hobbit's weight so long as he walked with the typical hobbit's soft-footedness.

'And that is why they chose not to ride ponies,' he realised with a sinking heart. No telling just how far their destination might be... Walking distance, for certain; but adults were able to walk much farther than a foodless tween. For Bilbo had polished off his last apple some time ago.

'Naught for it but to keep on going,' he gritted to himself. Even so, a little voice in the back of his mind told him to keep an eye out for smoke rising from the chimney of an isolated smial. Though they were not many, some hobbits did live in the back-country, by choice or by vocation (or both, as it were), such as hunters and shepherds, as well as smallholders who preferred to live in relative freedom, out from under the Thain's notice. One of these might be his uncles' intended destination. Alternatively, any nearby smial might provide a refuge from the intense cold, along with a restorative meal for a starving tween. 

The coming of the light of day – if not the face of the Sun herself, hidden by heavy clouds as she was – both cheered Bilbo and rewarded him for his analytical efforts. As he was passing a copse of trees, a small body of walkers came into sight ahead of him. Forgetting the cold and his hunger, he dodged behind the nearest tree, lest one of them should look behind him.

From his hiding place (which had the advantage of serving as a sort of windbreak, as well), he scrutinised the travellers he was following. Counting them was difficult at this distance, in the oddly flat light under the cloudy skies, but at last he was able to make out seven – no, eight! he corrected himself excitedly – in the group. The numbers fit; the seven taller hobbits were his Tookish uncles, all half-a-head taller than Bilbo's father.

He was on the right track!

But he'd have to exercise much more caution now, for the light that enabled him to see them would work against him, should one or more of his quarry happen to glance rearward. Which was all too likely. Those who travelled in the wilder parts of the Green Hill country recognised the wisdom of keeping watch on all sides and being prepared for all eventualities – as Uncle Isen had solemnly reminded his nephew over the course of more than one story. Furthermore, on an early visit to the Great Smials, Bilbo had learned of the old Tookish saying, He who doesn't use his head, is likely to lose it! Despite his tender years, and even while the greater part of his concentration was focused on the tracks in the snow, leading him ever onward, another part of his mind, almost without conscious thought, continuously scanned the countryside around him.

From behind the tree, he watched the party of Tooks-and-one-Baggins plod along. Once they'd rounded the hill they were traversing, he'd hurry along the line of tracks they'd left until the track-makers themselves came within his sight once more. And then he'd go to ground, so to speak, and repeat the process as many times as necessary until they all reached their destination. Then, and only then, would he reveal himself to them and demand some sort of accounting. They'd owe him an explanation, wouldn't they? After he'd gone to the trouble of traipsing mile after mile, simply because all the adults lacked the courtesy to inform him of their intentions? It wasn't his fault he was out here, on his own, in the practically trackless wilderland (not counting the tracks he was following, or his own tracks for that matter). This would not have been his first choice – had he been given a choice, that is!

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