Sam moved slowly through the Bywater market, pausing here and there to examine the wares. There wasn’t much in the fruit and vegetable stalls he couldn’t grow better in the Bag End garden, but some sweet musk melons took his eye, and he selected a few and placed them in the basket over his arm. Mr. Frodo would like them fine, et with paper-thin slices of ham. He added several crook-necked squash, some gooseberries, and a jar of clover honey – what with one thing and another, Mr. Frodo went through honey right quickly.
Whistling softly, Sam continued on, well pleased with his purchases.
“Mornin’, Sam,” said a voice Sam could well have done without hearing.
He turned his head. Ted Sandyman was lounging against a wall, a partially eaten meat pastie held in one hand. A smear of brown gravy disfigured his chin, and grease spots dotted his shirt. He smiled, that insolent smile that always preceded some provocative comment or other.
“I see ye’re a-limpin’. Stubbed a toe, did ye? Or was ye tryin’ on them outlandish boots that old Mad Baggins got from the Dwarves?”
“Neither, Ted,” said Sam then added slyly, “’Twas Mr. Frodo having his way with me in the garden shed this morning that done it.”
Ted, who had just taken a large bite of pastie, choked. He stared, eyes popping, then swallowed, and let out a guffaw. “Good ‘un, Sam,” he wheezed. He slapped his knee. “Though, ye should have picked a likelier candidate than that puny good-for-naught.”
Sam only grinned and moved off with a blithe, “Good day to you, Ted,” while he recalled with a shiver of delight the burning heat of Frodo’s shaft buried deep inside him.
Hadn’t his old dad raised him never to tell a lie?