Out of the Porcupine, into the Tyre
A glorious midday sun shone down on the green, turfed roof of Bag-Endless-Fuel as it put-putted happily towards the Misty Mountains, multi-coloured sparks leaping prettily from its rear hill-mounted exhaust system. It was Pippin’s turn to keep watch in the Thrushes Nest and he whiled away his time munching contentedly on a large game-pie with a side helping of mushrooms garnished with garlic and red pepper sauce. He was just moving on to his seconds, a plate of five sizeable custard tarts, when some distant specks in the sky caught his eye. They were moving swiftly towards the little burrow-buggy, becoming larger and more distinct as they approached.
“The Eagles!” he suddenly cried. “The Eagles are coming! Frodo! It’s …”
But Pippin’s exclamation was cut short as a Hobbit-sized bundle was released by the lead Eagle, striking him squarely on the head and bouncing down the chimney, taking the unbalanced Took with it.
“Well, I’m back,” declared Bilbo, picking himself up from the hearth and dusting himself down.
“Uncle Bilbo! Boy, am I glad to see you,” uttered a joyful Frodo.
“Bilbo!” exclaimed Merry. “But how did you get here?”
“Air Gwaihir, my boy,” replied the old Hobbit. “It’s the only way to fly, you fools!”
*
Groan!*
“Shame on you, Mister Bilbo, sir,” reprimanded Samwise. “For using that old chestnut simply to bump up the humour quotient of this post!”
“Gmmb fmwn gft moy awght!” piped up a hapless voice from the chimney breast.
So, once Pippin had been extracted from the chimney flue and settled with a large and reassuring plate of pumpkin pie and blackberries, the talk turned once more to Bilbo’s return.
“But I thought that you were peddling the translator conceit over in Rivendell, Uncle Bilbo,” said Frodo. “What brings you back to the race?”
“Well, when I arrived in Imladris, there was this group of Dwarves,” Bilbo explained. “Turned out to be another delegation from Mount Zoom Challenge Enterprises, led by a fellow called Bûrni Arkenstone. Well, one night in the Hall of Fire, they got drinking and talking with old Elrond. Gandalf was there too. I tried to warn Elrond, but after far more mugs of Miruvor than were good for him, he ended up placing a rather large wager on Bag-Endless-Fuel. I believe that I saw him waving the title deed to Imladris itself around at some point. Anyway, the next day, amidst bouts of moaning and clutching his head and calling for Lembacetamol, he tells me that it’s vital that Bag-Endless-Fuel wins the Mount Zoom Challenge if he is not to lose the Last Homely House and become the First Homeless Half-Elf. So he and Gandalf decide that it’s best that I return to oversee the enterprise – “to protect their investment” they said. And before I know whether I’m coming or going, Gandalf has got on his moth-piece, called up Gwaihir and, well, here I am.”
“Gracious me,” said Frodo. “So it seems that there’s a great deal riding on this race now.”
“Indeed there is, my boy. So let’s get going. Oh, and have you got that old Ring of mine? I should very much like to see it again …”
But that would have to wait since, as he was speaking, a series of sudden explosions rang out as the tyres gave way under pressure from thousands of porcupine spines. The little burrow-buggy veered first one way and then the other and only a concerted effort from Merry at the wheel managed to bring it under control. Gradually, he brought it to a standstill and the Hobbits emerged from the round front door to inspect the damage.