“...and I heard that he were black and blue, both eyes, if you’d believe it!  And that's why we en't seen him for a bit.  He's hidin’ till them bruises heal up.  Ashamed of bein’ beaten up by garden tools an’ all.”

“Nah.  He's jest off gallivanting around someplace, rilin’ things up, as he’s inclined ta.”
 
“But my Iris says that Delphinium en’t seen him neither, an’ he weren’t one to stay away from that fer long, if you take my meaning.  If he was whole, he’d be hangin’ round Del, my Iris says.”

Sam smirked into his tankard of ale, careful to hide his expression from the Gaffer.  All the talk of late was of the rumoured accident that Lotho Sackville-Baggins had in the garden at Miz Lobelia's.  Somehow, according to the stories, Lotho had managed to step on a shovel, hitting himself with the handle and blacking one eye, then, blindly stumbling away, had tripped over a basketful of bulbs and landed right on the barrow that the Gamgees were using, blacking the other eye.  And this, apparently, was told by the mistress of the house as if it must all be the fault of the gardeners, and not the clumsy oaf who managed to encounter every possible tool they owned on his trip through the S.-B.s’ garden. 

But Sam had only grimaced and shrugged when he had been asked, repeatedly, if it was true that Lotho had also broke that pretty nose of his.  Now he and the Gaffer could only sit and listen as the story was retold and dissected, over and over again around the tables of the Green Dragon.

“Well, and certain, I en’t seen that Lotho around fer a while, but it en’t no business of theirs,” the Gaffer growled loudly, more for the benefit of those around them than for Sam.  “Bunch of useless tongue waggin’ if’n ye ask me!” he continued, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.  “Don’t remember nothin’ of the sort and it were my shovel and my barrow!  I think I would remember somethin’ like that.  Besides it en’t none of my business and certain it en’t no one elses!”  He ended his tirade by banging his tankard down on the table.  The chatter around them died down just for a moment.  A few startled glances were sent in their direction, but gradually, the talk picked up just as before and even louder, but now on a different, still titillating topic.

“...and I heard that there were dwarves around that night.  Strange doins if’n ya ask me.  Always dwarves and wizards about up there.  It’s not natural.” 

Sam recognized Sandyman’s voice and frowned.  Much to Sam’s regret, the stories about Lotho’s supposed ‘accident’ had only managed to overshadow the wild tales about the disappearance of Mad Bilbo Baggins for a short while. 
 
“Well, I heard the new Master of Bag End run off to the elves hisself for a while there.  Came back lookin’ handsomer and more filled out than he were before.  And he was polished up like a jool.  At least, that’s what my Iris says.” 

Mister Bilbo would remain a topic of conversation for a long while, Sam supposed, and apparently Frodo as well.  Lifting his ale, he struggled not to smile at the reference to Frodo looking ‘handsomer and more filled out’.  He wasn’t sure, but he thought some of the cooking he had been helping with of late had been having an impact on Frodo’s waistline.

“Polished up like a jool?  Nah, he was jest waitin’ fer Mad Baggins ta be off so he could git his hands on that treasure that’s up there under the Hill.  And now he’s spendin’ some of that gold on clothes and fineries, thinking to be noticed -- as if anyone pays a mind to what that Baggins does.” 

That was Sandyman again, and Sam glowered appropriately over his shoulder at the table where the miller was sitting.  It did no good, but it was expected of him.  Someday he would take Sandyman down a peg or two -- someday.

“Hmmmpf.  No one pays any mind to what comes out of Sandyman’s gob, more like,” the Gaffer muttered, loud enough for only Sam to hear.  “Mister Frodo Baggins is worth more’n a hundred of that lot.”

Sam smiled at that, but quickly hid it from the Gaffer by taking another drag on his ale.  Glancing around at those gathered at the tables in the Green Dragon, he was struck again by the thought that something was different, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.  He looked once more, gazed over his shoulder, then grinned broadly as he turned back to his ale.  Finally, he had puzzled out what it was that had been nagging at him since they had come in.  Many of the younger hobbit lads, and even some of the older ones, including Sandyman himself, seemed to be wearing much shorter haircuts than had been the style before mad Bilbo Baggins disappeared. 

A few of those seated at the tables nearby were startled when Samwise Gamgee suddenly burst out laughing.  Even the Gaffer snorted in response to the unseemly outburst.

Much shorter haircuts.

*******
FINIS


This tale is finished, but the story of this very special pair of scissors goes on.

 Many thanks to Elhath on Lindelohte - the Quenya/Sindarin Discussion Board at http://pub83.ezboard.com/belfcomp, a service of the Elfling Yahoo Group, for the translation of the Sindarin runes on the scissors.

And, as always, thanks to my incomparable beta Willow-wode!
And also, for this fic, to her sidekick Connie Marie!

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