[piosenniel]

As the Dwarf finished his poem, some Hobbits who’d been listening in shook their heads. "Nonsense!" they said of it.

‘And “nonsense” to you, Minto Banks,’ came the firm voice of Cook. She’d come out of the kitchen to listen to the music and now found herself making her way through the tables with a large pitcher of the Dragon’s darkest stout. ‘Here have a mug of this,’ she told the farmer from Waymeet. ‘Puts hair on your toes!’ she said, with a smile as she filled his cup to the brim. Minto harrumph’d a bit, then raised the creamy headed brew to his nose and gave an appreciative sniff. He lowered the rim to his lips and took a long gulp, letting the bold brew nip at his tongue and tonsils as it slid down his throat.

‘Well, I’ll grant you the truth of the Dragon’s Stout, but all that about treasures in the deep still hidden . . . well I don’t know about that.’ He took another sip and fixed Cook with his eye. ‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me there’s a real dragon guardin’ the treasure to boot!’

‘And why not,’ said Cook topping his mug off once more. ‘Didn’t our own Mister Bilbo best a dragon in his den . . . and wasn’t there treasure enough to fight a war over. Or so he wrote.’

‘Oh, he was queer one . . . that Bilbo,’ said Minto, putting down his cup. He tamped his pipe and lit it. Pointing the tip of it round the table at his companions. ‘What sort of respectable Hobbit goes off adventuring, I ask you. Made it all up, I say.’