“I’d like to know how you still have this, Uncle.” Frodo couldn’t help but chuckle a little, both embarrassed and amused. Bilbo has the oddest knack for collecting anything and never giving it away. When they had sold or given out some of his belongings after he left the Shire in Frodo’s time, the hobbit could scarcely believe how much he’d been willing to part with.
“This small piece…of my trousers? Why, was this when…—” To think it made it to Hive City of all places. He remembered too clearly what that ripped piece of cloth came from. The teeth marks were one thing.
His many run-ins with Farmer Maggot’s dogs had left him with a little bruise here and there, but once, he’d come back with the back of his trousers ripped in one area, showing his undergarments! The laughter that echoed in that burrow when he’d arrived home had set his young cheeks to flushing red! His Uncle, ever incorrigible, cackling at 90, guffawing at 111.
“I trust we’ll be telling no one of this little incident in a certain hobbit’s tweens? I’d hate to delve up some information on Mr. Bilbo Baggins in return.” A sly look was offered his way.
They were peas in a pod, those two.
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