I have laughed more at this one thread than I have laughed at anything in months!
But still, I cannot believe that nobody has done this one yet.
The difficulty in selecting material in which the reading public might show interest, the problem as a chronicler has been choosing those adventures which most brilliantly illustrate the deep knowledge and remarkable talents shown by my illustrious friend, Frodo Baggins of 221B Bag End.
I find, according to my notes, that it was a Wednesday in September in '19, that I chanced to be sitting in the parlour reading the Red Book of Westmarch while Baggins, in one of his odd humors, handled a large and battered felt hat. After some time, he tossed it over to me.
“Well, Gamgee,” said he, gravely. “Here is the consequence of our ramble across the Water into Buckland yesterday. We have spent an instructive afternoon investigating my new digs in Crickhollow, but in our absence have missed a caller. An agitated one, I should say: in his haste he has left behind this most excellent hat.”
“It is a pity we missed him,” said I, examining it. “There is no way of knowing who it might have been. He left no calling-card?”
“I feel sure when the gentleman returns we shall have no difficulty in identifying him,” Baggins said airily. “Can you not find any indications as to his identity?”
I knew my companion’s methods and I did my best to imitate them. “It is a large hat,” I ventured.
“Indeed, that is the most telling point of the matter,” said Baggins. “Note the wide brim and exceptionally large and pointed crown. Such a hat would not fit you or I. The man who wore this hat must be at least four ells, if I am not mistaken, much into the manufacture of fireworks, well-travelled, gray-haired, and carries a well-worn wooden staff.”
“My dear Baggins!” I cried. “It is quite beyond belief! I believe you are some kind of wizard!”
“Not I, Gamgee,” said Baggins, peering through the curtains of the bowed window. “But unless I am much mistaken, there is one upon our doorstep to retrieve his hat.”
Billy the page let in the visitor, who stood in the hall of Bag End, all in a gray cloak. He seemed to me as a large weathered aspen, tall and wizened with the weight of years, and had a craggy, lined face. He peered down at us with a desperate, haunted gaze, as one with a story of such horror and grotesquerie that I thrilled to imagine it.
“Have a seat, dear sir,” said Baggins, gesturing with a pipe toward the basket chair. “This is my gardener, Dr. Gamgee, before whom you may speak as to me.”
“My name is Gandalf,” said the visitor, with a slight look of apprehension in my direction. “I am one of the four Istari, and I am at my wits’ end, Mr. Baggins! I only hope you might help me with a devilish problem! It is quite beyond me or my order, so I come at last to you for the answer I must have.”
“Istari?” said I, with a look at Baggins.
His eyes half-lidded, Baggins nodded. “One of the wizards who came to Middle-Earth in the year 1000 of the Third Age,” he murmured. “You will find it filed under G in my pigeon-holes. Pray continue, Gandalf.”
“Well, sir,” Gandalf went on hurriedly, “I have been searching for a lost heirloom of magic which vanished on the Gladden Fields after the battle on the plains of Dargorlad. It is a ring, a small one, but one which my order is seeking. We know it was carried by the last King of Gondor, the heir Isildur, but I believe after that it has simply vanished from Middle-Earth! I am quite beside myself, Mr. Baggins, and you are my only hope. Can you help me?”
Baggins steepled his fingers together, his eyes closed. “Can you describe the Ring?”
“It is a plain gold band, without ornament whatsoever,” said our mysterious visitor. “It is quite an ordinary ring, but of great sentimental value. I should be most appreciative if you could shed any light on my little problem.”
“Of course,” said Baggins. “Do you have any further information that might be of use in this investigation, however trifling?”
Gandalf hesitated. “It may be of no consequence.”
Baggins opened his eyes. “It is upon the observation of details that the practise of genius relies,” said he, sententiously.
“I may have overheard someone in connexion with the Ring,” said the stranger, “give the name Shire. I decided to come to you at once.”
“I see,” said Baggins. “And was this informant an ancient Stoor perhaps two ells in height, with lanky hair and a bedraggled countenance?”
“Yes, that would be the very same,” said the visitor, excited. “I see you are the very man who can solve my problem!”
“Quite,” said Baggins. “I believe I can have this minor detail brought to a successful conclusion in a few days. Call again in two days and I’m sure I shall have your answer. And pray this time do not forget your hat.”
“Thank you, Mr. Baggins,” said our visitor, clutching the hat to his chest, and when he had been shown the door, Baggins sat down again at the deal-topped table, his brow clouded.
“Devilry, Gamgee!” was all he said.
In a quarter of an hour he rose to his feet and reached for his jacket. “Have you your service revolver, Gamgee?” said he.
“I have a stout walking-stick,” I replied, meekly. “This is Middle-Earth, not London. Firearms have yet to be invented.”
“A walking stick is just as well,” said Baggins. “We shall have to make a little tramp through Hobbiton–perhaps as far as Rivendell. I suspect it may be dangerous, old man, so if you do not feel up to the challenge of such a journey–”
My stubborn streak reasserted itself. “I’m game,” said I.
“Good hobbit,” said Baggins, and his grey eyes flashed. “I’m afraid I cannot tell you more about this case at present, but our mysterious visitor was not the wizard Gandalf, but a clever disguise.”
“Good gracious!” said I. “But how can you be certain?”
“Our visitor’s hairs were white, as you must have observed, not gray,” Baggins said. “In addition, he made a fatal mistake when he spoke of the four Istari, for in truth there are five wizards. I do not know what has become of the real Gandalf, if that is so, but we have no time to lose.”
“Surely, Baggins,” I said, and my spine tingled with horror. “You don’t believe that Gandalf is a prisoner!”
“It is a capital mistake to theorise without data, Gamgee,” Baggins said. “But allow me to summon a hack, and let us make first for Bree, where a little something nutritious from Butterbur’s would not be out of order.”
“The Fellowship of the Ring” as written by A.C. Doyle
FISH
