Merry was entertaining a similar train of thought, having fed himself well enough that he could last until noon without serious discomfort.  He was sitting in the common room of the Horse & Rider, a fine establishment whose acquaintance he had made through association with the Rohan’s army—who he suspected had latched onto the inn simply because there was a horse carved on its wooden signpost.  At any rate, the innkeeper did not seem to be too discomfited by the raucous singing of ballads (usually in Rohirric) that emanated from the public house through the wee hours of the morning—probably because their coin was good.

It was only half past ten, however, and aside from a few locals Merry was the only customer in the Horse & Rider, and he was nearly finished.  Draining his mug, he rose to perform the one ritual that inevitably resulted from his every visit to the place: arguing with the innkeeper about who would pay for his meal.

The innkeeper was already gesticulating his adamant refusal to accept Merry’s coin as he saw him heading over to the counter and climbing upon a stool to pay.  “Please, Sir pherian, there is no need for you to pay for your meal.  We are all in so much debt—”

“To my kin and me, I know,” interrupted Merry.  “But this is the seventh meal I’ve had here by your grace and I ought to pay sometime.”  He thrust out a fist full of coins.  “Take it.”

But the innkeeper solemnly shook his head.  “Your very patronage is payment enough.”

Merry would have admitted he had a point if this were the only inn he frequented, but only someone completely oblivious to the nature of hobbits could think that, if he did go to only one inn, he would go there sporadically.  This was getting frustrating.  He could be a good haggler, but he was only just beginning to learn enough “reverse haggling” (part and parcel of being a hero) not to feel extreme guilt whenever he checked the money in his pockets.  This fellow was one of the worst ones out there—but time pressed, and Merry realized with a sinking heart that he wouldn’t be able to wear the man down enough to let him accept half price.  “I’ll tell you what,” he said, inspiration suddenly striking from on high.  “There’s supposed to be a big fancy dinner tonight for all of the delegates and such, but the City’s cellar burned down this morning.  They’re looking for an establishment to supply the wine for tonight, and I’ll put in a good word for The Horse & Rider.”

“Now, Sir pherian, there’s no need to do that—besides, our specialty here is in the ale.”

“Then I’ll put in a good word for the ale!”  And with that, Meriadoc the hobbit jumped down from the stool, exceedingly grateful for the trimmed-down trousers that prevented him from almost certain embarrassment as his pillowcase skirt flew up.