Chapter Three: The Terror of Hobbiton

It was slow going all morning with the Second-class deliveries. The geese took turns honking in my ear from their crate wedged just behind the waggon seat. At every inn we came to the ponies turned in unbidden, then stopped and looked back at me expectantly as if to ask, Where are our feedbags? They snorted and tossed their heads and generally acted very put-upon when I shook their reins and urged them forward.

"Sorry, girls, but no ale stops today."

By the time we came to Netherfield Farm, however, the sun was high and hot, and I was ready to concede that perhaps the ponies had the right of it after all. Drawing a damp sleeve across my brow, I thought longingly of a cool, foaming tankard of The Green Dragon’s finest.

As we jostled down the lane I noted with interest the imposing log stockade, crowned by sharpened stakes, that marched alongside us on the right. Snaking across the fields to meet it was a tall, dense hedge over which brambles with wicked thorns ran rampant—deliberately trained, I suspected. It wasn’t hard to guess what precious crop grew within these barriers. Across the road, rows of cabbages were protected by nothing more than a low, sturdy fence, sufficient to discourage an errant goat but no match at all for a determined hobbit.

At length our way was barred by a heavy gate with the words NETHERFIELD FARM carved across the top, surrounded by a border of mushrooms. No sooner had I jumped down and swung it open than two dogs bounded through, barking loud enough to be heard in the next farthing. The first was a small, spotted terrier that dashed in frenzied circles around the waggon, sending the geese into hysterics. Close behind was an enormous black hound, fully half the size of the ponies. He reared up, placed his heavy paws on my shoulders, and looked me dead in the eye.

"There’s a good boy," I said nervously. Though I liked dogs, I had discovered in the course of my rounds that they did not always return the sentiment.

Apparently satisfied with what he saw, the beast dropped to the ground, gave a final gruff bark, and began snuffling the ground around my feet. I understood quite clearly that I was not to move until further notice.

"All right, Nipper! Heel, Bane!" Farmer Broadfoot hurried through the gate brandishing a pitchfork, which he lowered when he saw me. "Why Abelard, what brings you out here with the cart? Where’s Rudy?"

"Took sick yesterday, so I’m filling in for him. If you could just sign here for delivery of this plowshare…"

Elmo marked a large "X" on the sheet and I helped him lift the heavy implement down from the waggon.

"That’s quite an impressive fence," I remarked.

"Indeed," said the farmer proudly. "Had that put up nigh on three years ago, when Master Frodo first came to Hobbiton. I was starting to think it was nowt but a waste of time and trouble…until now."

As if on cue, the gate creaked open again and Shirriff Tom emerged, mopping his face with a large handkerchief. The black dog stalked over at once and circled him, alternately whining and growling.

"Shoo!" the shirriff muttered, then looked at me in surprise. "Abelard!"

"Morning, Shirriff." I turned back to Elmo. "So you had another spot of trouble last night?"

"That I did," said the farmer glumly.

"What happened? Tell me everything you can remember."

"Here, what are you up to Abie?" demanded the shirriff with a scowl. "I already asked him all that."

"No offense, Tom," I soothed. "Two heads are better than one, as my da always said."

"Well, there ain’t much to tell that you haven’t heard before," said Elmo. "I made my evening rounds after supper, as usual, and saw nowt amiss. About seven o’ clock I locked the gate and turned in, but lay awake for a spell, tossing and turning and listening for any queer noises, or commotion from the dogs. Never thought I’d get a wink of sleep, but next thing I knew the morning sun was coming in the window. I rushed out here, and saw that a new patch of mushrooms had been picked clean! So I went to fetch the shirriff straight away."

I thought for a moment. "Is this gate the only way into the mushroom field?"

"Aye, the bramble hedge bounds it on all sides, save along the road here where I put up these stakes. Just to be sure, Tom and I walked the perimeter this morning and saw that no holes were cut through it, or dug underneath."

"Who helps you tend the mushrooms?"

"Only the family at this time of year…my lads Arlo, Tip, and Cubby, and the missus of course. Even the girls help out. I send all my hired hands to work the other crops. Hate to seem like I can’t trust ‘em, but…"

"Say no more, Elmo, we understand. No doubt we’d do the same ourselves, eh Tom?"

Eyes alight at the mere thought of owning mushroom fields, the shirriff heartily agreed. The dog was now sniffing at his breeches, and Tom tried to nudge him away with a foot.

"Bane! Leave the shirriff be!" barked Elmo. "What’s got into you?"

The hound backed off with a frustrated whimper. I gazed after him, wondering, and continued to question the farmer. "Your dogs run free at night?"

"Aye, I turn them loose in the field at sundown."

"And sounded no alarm."

"None a’tall. The thief must’ve bewitched ‘em somehow…you can see what fine watchdogs they are!"

As we talked, Bane sidled up to Tom again and suddenly, bold as you please, thrust his nose into the shirriff’s breeches pocket.

"Here now!" yelped Tom.

I choked back a laugh as the hound pulled out a mushroom, then proudly trotted over and dropped the prize in his master’s hand.

The farmer was outraged. "You, too, Tom?! Ain’t there anyone I can trust?"

"I’m sorry, Elmo!" mumbled the shirriff, red-faced. "I couldn’t help myself, being surrounded by the finest mushrooms in the Westfarthing and all....what’s a hobbit to do?"

"What indeed," sighed Elmo, plainly flattered in spite of himself. "Good lad, Bane!" he added, scratching the dog’s ears. Bane waved his tail vigorously.

This seemed as good a moment as any to make my exit—not that I’d learned much. Only one thing seemed clear: whoever was taking the mushrooms was an accomplished thief indeed.

Tom gladly accepted my offer of a lift back to town. Over lunch at The Green Dragon he chattered nonstop about the irresistible delights of Farmer Broadfoot’s mushroom field, his deep chagrin at being caught red-handed by the dog, and Frodo’s audacity in raiding the farm for a third night running. Finally he noticed that the conversation had been a trifle one-sided. "Why so quiet, Abie?"

"I was just thinking about the curious incident of the dogs in the night-time…"

"But the dogs did nothing in the night-time."

"That, my dear shirriff, is the curious incident."

Tom stared at me. "What are you on about, Abie? That’s easy enough to figure out. Frodo just managed to quieten the dogs, somehow."

"Perhaps," I said dubiously. I’d never known Frodo to have a way with dogs.

"Speaking of my good-for-nothing cousin, are ye?" broke in a surly voice from the next table. We looked up in surprise. It was Otho Sackville-Baggins, and he was drunk.

Some folks get jolly when they drink, others get mean. Otho was one of the second sort, and unfortunately for the rest of us, he got drunk a lot. He had been drinking heavily, in fact, ever since Frodo’s arrival in Hobbiton, and spent much of his time at the Dragon, bad-mouthing Bilbo and his ward at every opportunity.

I made no reply, but that didn’t discourage Otho in the least. "I’ve said all along that little river-rat was trouble, but not one of you would mark my words," he growled, taking another swig of beer and sweeping his gaze around the common-room. "Now he’s shown his true colors at last, hasn’t he? Even those wretched Brandybucks finally tired of his thieving ways and packed him off to Hobbiton!"

I was alarmed to hear some mutters of agreement among the hobbits sitting nearby.

"Well, I say this to Master Brandybuck-Baggins," continued Otho, warming to his subject now that he had a receptive audience. "We don’t take kindly to thieves here, either! He just might find himself sent back where he came from…and Mad Baggins may find he’s chosen the wrong heir!"

* * *

I stopped in at Bag End on my way to Overhill with Gruffo’s geese, which to my great relief had finally quieted down. Mr. Bilbo looked so hopeful when he learned that I’d been out to Netherfield Farm, I scarcely had the heart to tell him that mushrooms had been stolen once again, and what’s more that I had learned nothing to clear Frodo’s name. "Although, if it’s any comfort to you, I could see no way for Frodo or anyone else to get into that field undetected."

"Thank you, Abie," Bilbo murmured, shoulders sagging.

"But there’s something else…"

Bilbo’s face darkened as I told him about Otho’s remarks at The Green Dragon. "My dear cousin Otho has never forgiven me for turning up alive after my adventure, and for refusing to die ever since!" he fumed. "And he loathes Frodo even more, for cheating him out of his birthright, as he puts it. The fool has the absurd ambition to become head of two families, you see…which would give him the ridiculous name of Otho Baggins-Sackville-Baggins! So it doesn’t surprise me that he’s spreading ugly rumors about the lad, and trying to stir up trouble between us!"

With an effort he mastered his temper. "Well, I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this," he said more calmly, "but I see there’s nothing for it. For his own sake, I shall confine Frodo to Bag End until the true thief is found, and these blasted rumors are put to rest!"

My own mood didn’t improve any when I returned to the post-office that evening to drop off the cart, and learned how Lardo had fared on my route.

"Well, Abie, he had a wee bit of trouble, as it happens," said Postmaster Bunce.

"What do you mean?" I said sharply.

"Well now," he said in that slow, deliberate way of his that made me want to shake him, "Seems my nephew mixed up some of the deliveries a bit…Blossom Chubb’s and Farmer Grubb’s, to be exact."

"Blossom?" I had no need to hear more to know what was coming…though only twenty-six, Blossom was a lusty lass with a flock of suitors. She always met me at the gate to intercept her letters before her father got wind of them. "You don’t mean…?"

Barney nodded soberly. "Yep. Farmer Grubb returned the letter…to her da. Seems it said something about meeting young Garth Deepdelver at sunset down by the mill-pond. Someone was there to meet him all right, but it weren’t his sweetheart."

"Don’t tell me any more!" I groaned. I couldn’t bear to hear what other calamities the witless Lardo had visited upon my poor route.

* * *

Bilbo was as good as his word: Frodo was henceforth confined to the smial, and only permitted out in his guardian’s company. As might be expected, the lad was not overly pleased by this development. But he persuaded Bilbo to let Merry sleep in his room at night, to "keep him company," and after that appeared to accept the restriction much more readily. This set me to wondering about Merry all over again.

In any event, Frodo’s confinement did not have the hoped-for result…mushrooms continued to vanish from Netherfield Farm at a steady clip. When I delivered the mail to Bag End a few days later, Bilbo met me at the door, bleary-eyed and disheveled.

"Are you ill, Bilbo?" I asked in alarm.

"No, I’m fine," he mumbled, "just a bit short on sleep. You see, after the latest incident of mushroom snatching, the farmer and shirriff paid their daily call to Bag End and demanded to know how I could be certain that Frodo wasn’t sneaking out of the smial at night. Well, after going round and round but getting nowhere, we all agreed that I would sit up in a chair outside Frodo’s bedchamber, and that Shirriff Tom would keep vigil in the garden below his window.

"The shirriff, of course, swears that he didn’t close his eyes all night." Bilbo snorted. "If that’s so, then it must have been the crickets I heard snoring loud enough to rouse the dead! I did my best to stay awake, but nodded off just before dawn. Yet to the best of my knowledge, all remained quiet within Frodo’s room. This morning, however, the farmer was knocking at the door bright and early…and I don’t imagine I have to tell you what news he brought. I’m at my wits’ end, Abie!" the poor hobbit exclaimed, rubbing his forehead wearily. "A plague on mushrooms and mushroom farmers…and stubborn nephews, too!"

I listened to him with growing concern…such talk was not like Bilbo at all, and would have pleased Otho no end. "Why don’t you walk down the Hill with me, and bring the lads with you," I suggested quickly. "It’s market-day, and it may do you all good to get out for a while!"

"Perhaps you’re right," nodded Bilbo. "Half a minute, and I’ll fetch them."

I accompanied the three down the Hill and into the village. While Bilbo was still on edge, his young cousins were in fine spirits. Frodo in particular seemed glad to be out and about, and more relaxed than I’d seen him in some time…since this whole mess began, in fact.

Now it’s a curious thing, but the more the facts pointed against Frodo being the mushroom thief, the more folks were convinced that it was he. The thieving skills of the Terror of Hobbiton, as he had come to be known, were now almost legendary among the local farmers. As we strolled through the marketplace, I noted how the merchants and farmers in the stalls nudged each other and whispered as we passed. The lad wasn’t helping things, either, stopping at intervals and fixing his gaze on some tempting item or other, until the vendor all but leaped protectively in front of his wares.

Some did more than whisper. "Stay away from my apples, you rascal!" bellowed a farmer. "Let me tell you something, Frodo Baggins," warned another. "Stealing may get you naught but a thrashing and a scolding off in that queer Buckland, but we do things differently here—so mind yourself!"

Frodo looked unconcerned by the stir he was causing, though Bilbo bristled with indignation.

"The Terror of Hobbiton," said Merry enviously. "I wish I were the Terror of something!"

"With time and a little hard work, I’m sure you will be, Master Merry," I said.

"Now Abie, don’t encourage him!" said Bilbo.

A small hobbit lad had come up behind us while we talked, and was carefully examining Frodo’s back.

Frodo turned and regarded him curiously. "Here, what are you up to, little one?"

"Looking for your wings!" the faunt replied. "Gran’dad said you must have flown over Farmer Broadfoot’s fence, and put a spell on his dogs!"

"Come along, Frodo!" said Bilbo, taking him by the arm.

The youngster pursued us for a while, calling hopefully, "They say you can pass through the walls of your smial too, like a will o’ the wisp! Can you, Frodo?"

"Don’t answer that!" snapped Bilbo.

Merry burst out laughing, while Frodo tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin.

"Frodo Baggins, I think you’re enjoying this!" Bilbo scolded.

* * *

That evening found me back at The Green Dragon, nursing an ale and mulling over the events of the past week. Frodo’s and Merry’s suspect behavior, the dogs’ curious silence, Otho’s vicious gossip-mongering…surely the pieces of the puzzle were all there, if I could just fit them together correctly.

At the sound of Frodo’s name, I broke off my reflections to attend more closely to the chatter around me. The locals were regaling a traveler from the Northfarthing with the exploits of the Terror of Hobbiton.

"Why, just last night he struck again, even as old Mr. Bilbo and Shirriff Tom kept watch outside his chamber!" Anson Brownlock stated with authority.

"I don’t see how that’s possible," scoffed the stranger. Northfarthing hobbits are not much given to flights of fancy, and what’s more are deeply suspicious of any news from "down there"—that is, the rest of the Shire.

"Aye, but that’s the mark of a master thief, ain’t it?" Anson replied. "You’re never quite sure just how they bring it off…"

"But," sputtered the Northerner, "that’s nonsense! How could the lad be in two places at once, master thief or no?"

Anson shrugged. "If I knew, reckon I’d be the master thief then, eh?"

"Maybe he had help," put in Gus Noakes. "Maybe," he added darkly, "he had inside help, if you take my meaning!"

I had no idea if the old windbag meant help from Bilbo or from someone at the farm, but decided I’d heard just about enough. Evidently the traveler had too, for shaking his head, he bid the company goodnight and retired to his room.

"Who’s to say he’ll stick to Netherfield Farm, either?" Gus continued undaunted. "Mark my words, none of us is safe…could be my mushroom fields next—or yours, Anson!"

"Maybe he’s there now," I suggested wickedly.

"Where?" cried several voices at once.

I shrugged. "Anywhere…or everywhere, to hear you lot talk."

Silence fell over the room, save for the clink of a mug and the nervous shuffling of feet under the tables. Suddenly, Anson stood up, and made a show of stretching and yawning before remarking carelessly, "Well, I suppose I’ll be heading on home now, seeing as it’s getting late and all. Don’t want the missus to start a-worriting!" It was then all of half past six.

In short order, every farmer in the place cleared out one after the other, first taking pains to appear that they were in no particular rush. The courtyard briefly echoed with shouts of Gee-up!, the creak and jingle of harness, and the crunch of gravel, then all was quiet. I sighed with relief, ignoring the innkeeper’s glare. At least I would be spared any further tales of the Terror of Hobbiton that night.

But the peace proved short-lived. A mocking voice assailed me from the shadows by the hearth: "Very amusing, Abelard! I suppose you think that was quite the clever little trick." Only the glow of a pipe marked the speaker’s presence, but I had no need to see his face.

"Still here, Otho?"

"Aye, I don’t scare as easily as those fools!" he sneered.

"Not to mention that your own crops are all down in the Southfarthing, safely out of reach of the Terror of Hobbiton?"

Otho spat into the fire, which sizzled and flared up, illuminating his face briefly. He was scowling. "That’s got naught to do with it!" he retorted.

"As for tricks," I continued calmly, "I didn’t put any ideas in their heads that weren’t there already. As my da used to say, if folks want to believe something, they’ll believe it…they don’t need reasons."

"Never fear, Archer…they’ll have reasons a-plenty!" Otho said with a nasty laugh. He rose, knocked out his pipe against the hearth-piece, and departed, letting the door bang behind him.

I sat there a while longer, wondering what Otho had meant by his last remark, before draining my mug and leaving in my turn.

Editor's notes:

In another remarkable Age-spanning coincidence, Abelard’s remark about the dogs in the night-time presages Sherlock Holmes’ famous words in "Silver Blaze." Yet I believe that Arthur Conan Doyle can be safely absolved from any suspicion of cribbing, as it is highly unlikely that he would have had access to Abelard’s manuscript, or indeed any knowledge of Westron.

"…giving him the ridiculous name of Otho Baggins-Sackville-Baggins!"
As Tolkien explained in Letter 214, The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, if Bilbo had died with no heir, Otho Sackville-Baggins would have succeeded him as titular head of the Baggins family. And as Otho’s maternal grandfather had died with no male heirs, the nominal headship of the Sackvilles had come to him through his mother Camellia. "It was his rather absurd ambition," wrote Tolkien, "to achieve the rare distinction of being ‘head’ of two families (he would probably then have called himself Baggins-Sackville-Baggins): a situation which will explain his exasperation with the adventures and disappearances of Bilbo, quite apart from any loss of property involved in the adoption of Frodo."