Chapter One
Frodo lifted his head slightly as he bowed over his task. Had he heard a dog barking? He listened for a long moment and then relaxed. 'Guilty nerves', he chided himself, then turned back to his work.
It was a fine full patch, one neither he nor any of his fellow 'borrowers' had found before. The bells were broad and the stems thick, and the sight of them made his mouth water in culinary anticipation. He culled the patch carefully, leaving no evidence of his activity.
Frodo had little fear of discovery, for he could, and had, eluded and out-run Farmer Maggot's farmhands, many times. He knew his way around the farm well, because of his frequent nighttime visits. Today he was working in the full light of day, because the other young hobbits at Brandy Hall had said he was afraid of Maggot, and he would prove them wrong. In truth, the Farmer terrified him, with his huge dogs and stout cudgel, but Frodo had seen him ride away early that morning toward Stock, wrapped up in his red hood and scarf that he wore to market. He would be gone for hours yet; Frodo would have plenty of time to fill up his bag and his belly.
His bag was nearly full already with his morning's efforts, but this proud, mature patch of mushrooms could not be passed by. He stuffed his bag to bulging.
There it was again! Dogs barking! In a twinkling he was off at a run, bent over and speeding down the ditch. The barking was distant, but too near for Frodo's comfort. He had not realized how close to the Farmer's house he had come. He flew along the familiar path, keeping low and moving as silent as a hobbit could when burdened with a sack of vegetables half his own size. This cutting led to a dyke, and beyond that the road and the River. Once he reached the Ferry, he'd be safe… or so he believed.
He laughed as he left the faint baying behind; the Lawless Baggins had struck again!
The dogs sounded again, and nearer. Frodo reached the dyke and scrambled up the bank. It was steep and slippery, and Frodo had to grasp the tussocky grass at the brink to keep from sliding back down. He braked his fall, sighed with relief, and then gasped as a hand closed upon his collar.
He was hauled out of the cutting and into the road. There was Farmer Maggot! With a fist full of Frodo's tunic in one great work-worn hand, he neatly relieved him of the bag of pilfered vegetables with the other. Frodo wriggled to escape, but was held firm.
"So 'ere's the one what's been raiding me gardens!" growled Farmer Maggot, fierce as one of his wolfish dogs. "You'd be not much more 'n a mouthful for ol' Fang over there." The dog was a black-brown brute with short hair and what looked to Frodo like a hundred teeth. It licked its loose jowls and barked throatily. Frodo was far too frightened to notice that it was barely more than a puppy.
"Mrs. Maggot will be nearly to Stock by now. She wondered why I insisted that she wear my old red things to market. How she will laugh when I tell her who our little thief is...or was," he added menacingly, and Frodo trembled, caught fast in the Farmer's unrelenting grip and seeing his fate written in the weather-beaten face. "I'd feed you to me dogs, if I had not a touch o' pity for poor Miss Primula. She'd be sorry indeed to see what her son has become. So, instead I'll do what she would do, were she alive to feel the shame."
And with those words, the farmer turned Frodo over his knee and laid three hard licks across the young hobbit's breeches with his broad hand. Then he released Frodo and whistled. Two more dogs appeared at his side, bristling and growling. Maggot said to his dogs, "See, lads, next time this young varmint sets foot on my land, you can eat him. Now see him off!"
Frodo was already running, but the dogs were at his heels until he reached the Ferry-landing. His heart was in his mouth, between his tearing eyes and stinging backside. He ran with everything he had, praying that the Ferry was still on the west-bank, and that these rabid wolves Maggot had set on him would not follow him onto the raft. He prayed also that no one witnessed his undignified retreat, empty-handed and humiliated.
The dogs halted at the Ferry-markers, but kept up their noisy racket, and Frodo felt his cheeks burning as the sound attracted the attention of the Bucklanders across the River. His shame would not end this hour, or this day, if old Rory got wind of this tale. Frodo poled the raft over the slow brown water, and vowed to himself firmly never to set foot over the Brandywine River again!