"How lovely!" said Stingo.
"Yes—but where IS it?" persisted Jam.
"It's the—er—very latest in outhouse, open-air apertures, wiv a wide capacity gutter installation."
"You mean we have to piss out of the window?" asked Fido.
"In a nutshell - yes, Guv."
"Well, in that case we'll take the rooms," said Fido. "I never could stand those smelly, indoor things."
"Spiffin'!" said Butterbore. "Do excuse me but I'm that rushed off me feet tonight. What wiv a party of Strollin' Elves that come in on the 14.40 from Buckleberry yesterday an' the annual dwarf-tossin' contest—"
"—Dwarf tossing?" interrupted Perry.
"The guests bet on which dwarf can crack one off the wrist the-"
"Come, again?" asked Perry in bewilderment.
"Don't ask, Perry, you don't want to know," said Fido.
"Marge will bring your supper in two shakes, if you'll pardon the expression," continued Butterbore. "Ring the bell if she don't. With that, the innkeeper rushed out and left the Robbits to themselves.

Fido sank into a comfortable armchair by the fireplace. Stingo was tempted to sink down on top of him, but thought better of it when he caught sight of Jam's scowling face. "If that lad takes any liberties with Mr Fido, I'll kill him - so help me" muttered the fat Robbit.
Perry was about to ring the bell when Marge bustled in with four mugs of foaming ale and a plate of mushrooms and bacon. It was plain fare, but there was plenty for all, and Jam's earlier misgivings were relieved by the excellence of the beer.
They were just lighting up their pipes when Marge returned and asked them if they'd like to join the company in the lounge bar. "There's music an' dwarf tossing and the beer's three pennorth cheaper than takin' it in y' room."
"What's 'Dwarf tossing?"
"OH, SHUT UP, PERRY!" said the other Robbits.
That clinched it for Jam. He always was a skinflint when it came to buying a round. Soon they joined the other guests in the large, half-timbered lounge bar. Perry announced he wanted a breath of air. "If you must," said Fido, "but don't forget we're supposed to be traveling incognito!"

The gathering was small, but noisy. Butterbore was propping up the bar talking to a scantily-clad Robbit-lass who kept glancing at Fido from under her long eyelashes. But the Robbit's attention was fixed on two red-faced dwarfs who were warming up for the Dwarf Tossing contest and making a great deal of noise about it. Suddenly, he spotted an unsavoury looking character smoking a fat cigar with a crumpled felt hat pulled low over his shifty eyes, sitting in the shadow of the fireplace.
"Who's that?" he asked Butterbore.
"e's one o' them wanderin' peddlers - numenorian rug trafficker, more like, by the number of strange packages that arrive for 'im. He disappears for months on end, and then pops up again with some overdressed floosie 'angin' on 'is arm, and a flash new motor-car. Mind you, not that I'm complainin'. He allus pays on time - and 'ansomely. What 'is real name is I've never 'eard tell: but 'es known round 'ere as Snider. But there's no accountin' for tinkers and tossers, as we says 'ere in Bree, meanin' the peddlers and Shire 'obbits. Funny you should ask about 'im..." But at that moment, a dwarf called for more tissues, and Butterbore's last remark remained unexplained.
The Robbits moved away, and Fido found a quiet table where they could remain unobserved.
"Keep your eye on that man," he said to Stingo. "I don't like the look of him one bit..."
"I'm none too keen on that trollop by the bar, neither," said Jam. "If she's a decent, respectable Robbitmaid, I'm a turnip."
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the lass laughed at something Butterbore said and came over to their table.

"Mr Butterbore was a-wonderin' if you gents might be a-wantin' to go upstairs?" she asked in an insinuating voice.
"Why, what's upstairs?" asked Fido.
The girl winked.
"Is there dancing? asked Stingo brightly. "I adore dancing."
Jam glared at him.
"You might call it dancin', Sir..." said the girl, with a coquettish twirl of her dress.
"You mean this is a knocking-shop," said Fido flatly.
"What if it is?" said the girl with a defiant pout. "You don't fink a few beers and a 'andful of tossin' dwarfs pays for the upkeep of this place, do you?"
"Let's leave, Mr F- lets's leave, Sir." said Jam primly.
"We can't leave, Jam, this is the only Inn in Bree."
"Couldn't we find a nice respectable Robbit family to put us up?"
"What's the hurry, big boy?" she teased Jam, "Don't e fancy me?"
"Tell her to go away, Mr Fido!"
"Jam!"
"I'm sorry Sir, that floosie's got me so flustered, I clean forgot-"
"-Forgot what?" interrupted the girl inquisitively.
"Never you mind!" retorted Jam.
"Lighten up, Jam," said Fido with laugh. "She won't bite you."
"I might..." she pouted.
Stingo giggled and drew his chair closer to Fido.
"Well - you're a cute little thing," said the girl to Stingo. "Wouldn't you like to come upstairs with me?"
"Yes," said Fido. "Why don't you, Stingo. In fact, why don't you both go upstairs while I have a quiet word with Butterbore about that dratted note he's mislaid."
"Me, Sir?" asked Jam, reddening. "I'd never forgive m'self. Nor would my Rosie. You know we plighted our troth last midsummer day. The very idea, Sir!"
"Then you go, Stingo".
Stingo shook his head vigorously and drew closer to Fido.
The girl pressed her leg against Stingo, hitched up her dress to expose a flash of her red, satin camiknickers, and tossed back her hair. "I'll warrant that with a codpiece that big you know how to give a girl a good time!"
"Go on, Stingo", repeated Fido. "You look as if you could do with the relief."
"Must I, Sir", said Stingo sulkily. "I'd much rather stay here with you."

"That would be wise."
Suddenly Fido was aware that the strange looking man he'd seen earlier was at his elbow, and jumped up in consternation.
"Who are you!" he demanded.
"I am called Snider", said the stranger in a deep undertone. "And I am very pleased to meet you Mister - Underpants, if Butterbore got your name right."
"He did", said Fido stiffly, and shifted uncomfortably under the piercing grey eyes which regarded him.
"Well - Mister - Underpants," continued Snider softly, "If I were you I would not take up the young woman's offer. A few beers and a roll in the hay are all very well in their place, but this isn't the Shire. There are queer folk about, and queerer folk have been through here earlier today asking about the whereabouts of one Fido Faggins..!"

Fido started. "How the devil do you know my name?"
"I know a great deal about you - and your mission," whispered Snider. "If you want to keep them secret I would advise you to take my warning seriously."
Fido sat down with a bump. "Get lost!" he said to the girl.
"Limped dicked ninnies!" she replied, and flung herself toward the next table where she was soon haranguing three dwarfs with beards so luxuriant, a family of squirrels would have sold their grandmother to call them home.
"Get some more beers in, Jam, there's a good chap,." said Fido. Jam trotted off to the bar. Fido leaned closer to Snider. Soon he was deep in conversation with the mysterious peddler. "So you know all about IT?"