The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, The Two Towers, The Return of the King. Литагент HarperCollins USD

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      The hobbits looked at him, and saw with surprise that his face was drawn as if with pain, and his hands clenched the arms of his chair. The room was very quiet and still, and the light seemed to have grown dim. For a while he sat with unseeing eyes as if walking in distant memory or listening to sounds in the Night far away.

      ‘There!’ he cried after a moment, drawing his hand across his brow. ‘Perhaps I know more about these pursuers than you do. You fear them, but you do not fear them enough, yet. Tomorrow you will have to escape, if you can. Strider can take you by paths that are seldom trodden. Will you have him?’

      There was a heavy silence. Frodo made no answer; his mind was confused with doubt and fear. Sam frowned, and looked at his master; and at last he broke out:

      ‘With your leave, Mr. Frodo, I’d say no! This Strider here, he warns and he says take care; and I say yes to that, and let’s begin with him. He comes out of the Wild, and I never heard no good of such folk. He knows something, that’s plain, and more than I like; but it’s no reason why we should let him go leading us out into some dark place far from help, as he puts it.’

      Pippin fidgeted and looked uncomfortable. Strider did not reply to Sam, but turned his keen eyes on Frodo. Frodo caught his glance and looked away. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I don’t agree. I think, I think you are not really as you choose to look. You began to talk to me like the Bree-folk, but your voice has changed. Still Sam seems right in this: I don’t see why you should warn us to take care, and yet ask us to take you on trust. Why the disguise? Who are you? What do you really know about – about my business; and how do you know it?’

      ‘The lesson in caution has been well learned,’ said Strider with a grim smile. ‘But caution is one thing and wavering is another. You will never get to Rivendell now on your own, and to trust me is your only chance. You must make up your mind. I will answer some of your questions, if that will help you to do so. But why should you believe my story, if you do not trust me already? Still here it is—’

      At that moment there came a knock at the door. Mr. Butterbur had arrived with candles, and behind him was Nob with cans of hot water. Strider withdrew into a dark corner.

      ‘I’ve come to bid you good night,’ said the landlord, putting the candles on the table. ‘Nob! Take the water to the rooms!’ He came in and shut the door.

      ‘It’s like this,’ he began, hesitating and looking troubled. ‘If I’ve done any harm, I’m sorry indeed. But one thing drives out another, as you’ll admit; and I’m a busy man. But first one thing and then another this week have jogged my memory, as the saying goes; and not too late I hope. You see, I was asked to look out for hobbits of the Shire, and for one by the name of Baggins in particular.’

      ‘And what has that got to do with me?’ asked Frodo.

      ‘Ah! you know best,’ said the landlord, knowingly. ‘I won’t give you away; but I was told that this Baggins would be going by the name of Underhill, and I was given a description that fits you well enough, if I may say so.’

      ‘Indeed! Let’s have it then!’ said Frodo, unwisely interrupting.

      ‘A stout little fellow with red cheeks,’ said Mr. Butterbur solemnly. Pippin chuckled, but Sam looked indignant. ‘That won’t help you much; it goes for most hobbits, Barley, he says to me,’ continued Mr. Butterbur with a glance at Pippin. ‘But this one is taller than some and fairer than most, and he has a cleft in his chin: perky chap with a bright eye. Begging your pardon, but he said it, not me.’

      ‘He said it? And who was he?’ asked Frodo eagerly.

      ‘Ah! That was Gandalf, if you know who I mean. A wizard they say he is, but he’s a good friend of mine, whether or no. But now I don’t know what he’ll have to say to me, if I see him again: turn all my ale sour or me into a block of wood, I shouldn’t wonder. He’s a bit hasty. Still what’s done can’t be undone.’

      ‘Well, what have you done?’ said Frodo, getting impatient with the slow unravelling of Butterbur’s thoughts.

      ‘Where was I?’ said the landlord, pausing and snapping his fingers. ‘Ah, yes! Old Gandalf. Three months back he walked right into my room without a knock. Barley, he says, I’m off in the morning. Will you do something for me? You’ve only to name it, I said. I’m in a hurry, said he, and I’ve no time myself, but I want a message took to the Shire. Have you anyone you can send, and trust to go? I can find someone, I said, tomorrow, maybe, or the day after. Make it tomorrow, he says, and then he gave me a letter.

      ‘It’s addressed plain enough,’ said Mr. Butterbur, producing a letter from his pocket, and reading out the address slowly and proudly (he valued his reputation as a lettered man):

       Mr. FRODO BAGGINS, BAG END, HOBBITON in the SHIRE.

      ‘A letter for me from Gandalf!’ cried Frodo.

      ‘Ah!’ said Mr. Butterbur. ‘Then your right name is Baggins?’

      ‘It is,’ said Frodo, ‘and you had better give me that letter at once, and explain why you never sent it. That’s what you came to tell me, I suppose, though you’ve taken a long time to come to the point.’

      Poor Mr. Butterbur looked troubled. ‘You’re right, master,’ he said, ‘and I beg your pardon. And I’m mortal afraid of what Gandalf will say, if harm comes of it. But I didn’t keep it back a-purpose. I put it by safe. Then I couldn’t find nobody willing to go to the Shire next day, nor the day after, and none of my own folk were to spare; and then one thing after another drove it out of my mind. I’m a busy man. I’ll do what I can to set matters right, and if there’s any help I can give, you’ve only to name it.

      ‘Leaving the letter aside, I promised Gandalf no less. Barley, he says to me, this friend of mine from the Shire, he may be coming out this way before long, him and another. He’ll be calling himself Underhill. Mind that! But you need ask no questions. And if I’m not with him, he may be in trouble, and he may need help. Do whatever you can for him, and I’ll be grateful, he says. And here you are, and trouble is not far off, seemingly.’

      ‘What do you mean?’ asked Frodo.

      ‘These black men,’ said the landlord lowering his voice. ‘They’re looking for Baggins, and if they mean well, then I’m a hobbit. It was on Monday, and all the dogs were yammering and the geese screaming. Uncanny, I called it. Nob, he came and told me that two black men were at the door asking for a hobbit called Baggins. Nob’s hair was all stood on end. I bid the black fellows be off, and slammed the door on them; but they’ve been asking the same question all the way to Archet, I hear. And that Ranger, Strider, he’s been asking questions, too. Tried to get in here to see you, before you’d had bite or sup, he did.’

      ‘He did!’ said Strider suddenly, coming forward into the light. ‘And much trouble would have been saved, if you had let him in, Barliman.’

      The landlord jumped with surprise. ‘You!’ he cried. ‘You’re always popping up. What do you want now?’

      ‘He’s here with my leave,’ said Frodo. ‘He came to offer me his help.’

      ‘Well, you know your own business, maybe,’ said Mr. Butterbur, looking suspiciously at Strider. ‘But if I was in your plight, I wouldn’t take up with a Ranger.’

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