[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordogrim stalked away from the Whitfoot children grumblingly angry about the situation. He was glad that the children were all right, but he knew that the Whitfoots were going to blame May and Henry for the accident. Relations between the families had appeared to become better in the last couple of days as Harold had made a concerted effort to make up for the fight; even Kalimac had become somewhat more careful in his dealings with the Chubbs. Between the Whitfoot father and Fordogrim, however, there remained an icy formality – neither one of them had mentioned Kalimac’s attack on the elderly hobbit, nor the accidental assault on Kalimac’s nose with the knobbled cane…Fordogrim gripped the cane tightly in his gnarled hands. The same cane as just saved his fool-headed children he reflected bitterly.

Fordogrim’s mood had been getting steadily worse since the wolf attack and he would have been hard-pressed to explain why. He supposed it had something to do with the pain in his hip, which the attack by Kalimac followed by the scuffle with the wolves had done little to help. Whatever the reason, he had become sullen in aspect and quicker with his tongue than even his family was used to. Even May had come in for some lengthy pieces of unsought ‘advice,’ and it was only through a monumental effort of will that Fordogrim had resisted the urge to tell Marcho everything that he thought of this venture. The scout, perhaps sensing the old hobbit’s mood, had taken to avoiding him whenever possible.

Fordogrim reached Stout and hauled himself up the pony’s side. His friend’s wounds were healing from the wolf attack, but like his master Stout now walked with a bit of a limp which had forced the old hobbit to ride in the cart with his family from time to time to give Stout a rest. This closer proximity had only increased the tensions within the family, but so far no-one had spoken of it. Harold looked over to his father and asked if the Whitfoot children were safe. “Aye, that they are,” Fordogrim replied as gruffly as possible. He did not know why, but since they had left Bree he had saved his foulest moods for his son. “But like as not, those Whitfoots will be a-blaming our Henry and May for that. Fool Whitfoots!” Fordogrim could see his son biting his tongue, and for some reason this only made him angrier. “Where is it we’re at again, anyway son?” he demanded.

“This is the Baranduin River, father. It’s the beginning of the new land we’ve come to live in.”

“The Brandywine, eh? Seems mighty dangerous to me; not the kind of place for sensible hobbits to live” He looked pointedly at where the Whitfoot children were being tended to by their parents.

“It’s the Baranduin,” Harold said. Is that a sigh he just fetched at me? “And we’re not going to live next to the River – we’ve got days and days of travel to go still.”

“Eh! What’s that? Days more to go, you say? Well if there’s days still to go yet, then why is that there crack-brain Marcho making such a ballyhoo about reaching this here Brandywine?” He emphasised the last word, seeking to get a rise out of his son. He did not know why he was spoiling for a fight, but he was. He glared about him at the rest of the Chubbs, waiting for one of them to succumb to his baiting.