After dressing hastily, they each took a pony and rode in different directions--Lad and Angelica into Michel Delving, Milo on the great road to the west, Sam and Frodo to the east and south as far as the crossroad to Waymoot, and the boys to the north. They asked everyone they met along the way if they'd seen a black-and-white pony during the night or early-morning hours, and peeked into paddocks and stables whenever they were able. Frodo searched for hoof-prints or trodden-down grass that might show where a pony had been taken off the road into fields or woodlands. But there was no sign of Fleetfoot. They returned one by one in the afternoon, weary and despondent. Mosco was in tears and could not be consoled.
"I'm sorry. I've failed you," Frodo said to the others when they all met again at Lad and Angelica's house at the end of the day.
"You aren't giving up?" asked Milo.
"No, I'll continue to search for him, but I don't see how I can give you any hope that he'll be at the races tomorrow."
"You did your best, Frodo," said Lad. "All of us--we've done all we could. And we still don't know what's become of him."
"You can't solve a mystery without something to guide you toward the truth," added Angelica, who had just looked in on her own children after seeing Mosco to bed in his room. "You need clues and things."
"There've been precious few of those today," Frodo agreed. "I've only seen one so far, and I'm not sure what to make of it..." He fell to silent musing, until the maid brought in a tea tray and Angelica offered him a cup. "How is Mosco?" he asked her.
She shook her head. "Poor boy. I've never seen him so upset."
"He'd think it babyish to admit to it," said Milo, "but I believe he considers Fleet to be his pony in much the same way Willa considers the colt to be hers. He loves him dearly."
"And he won't be able to ride him tomorrow," Lad added glumly. "Frodo's right--There's no hope of it. We'll have to run Candlestick in Fleet's place, and Moro will ride. It's either that, or not race at all."
Frodo brightened a little at this. "I'll go with you. I want to be there when you announce the change. I want to see the other ponies' owners. They have the best reasons for stealing Fleetfoot. No one knows you have another pony to run, do they? Milo said you've been keeping Candlestick a secret." Both Lad and Milo confirmed that this was true. "And don't tell them Fleet is missing. You can make up some good excuse for keeping him out, can't you?"
Milo and Lad agreed that they could, and began to make up a story about Fleetfoot suffering a minor injury.
Frodo went to bed that evening more weary than he'd been the night before, for in addition to his usual tiredness after a long day of riding, he was burdened with a heavy sense of defeat. He'd had such feelings before during his investigations: Even in what were considered his most celebrated successes, there was always something he believed had gone wrong, something left undone, a death that might've been avoided if he'd been more clever and seen the truth earlier. But in the end he accomplished what he'd set out to do. Today, he had failed utterly.
He'd been set far greater tasks than finding one pony, but this was a matter of trust and, though he hated to admit to such vanity, personal pride. He was the Shire's famous investigator, an unexampled finder of missing persons and missing jewels, solver of murders. Thains and even the King had engaged his services. Such was Frodo's reputation that when he'd begun exploring the stable this morning in search of clues, Lad and Milo had looked as if they expected him to pull Fleetfoot out of the air, like a conjuring trick. And he hadn't been able to do that.
Once they were abed, Sam voiced Frodo's own thoughts aloud. "What if we don't find 'm?"
"We must, that's all," Frodo answered. "I can't disappoint my own family when they turn to me for help. That pony is dear to every one of them. Remember your Bill, Sam?"
Sam sighed as he recalled Bill the pony. He understood the affection that Milo and his sons, Lad, and even Angelica had for Fleetfoot. And Fleetfoot was more than a beloved pet; he was the Burrowses' and Whitfoots' livelihood. The pony's speed had made their fortunes for them. Even if he no longer ran races after this summer, Fleetfoot was too valuable an animal to be lost. "So what'll you do?" he asked.
"I hope that, after tomorrow's races, I will have sufficient 'clues and things,' to discover what's happened to Fleetfoot." And he had one other idea, that he wasn't yet prepared to reveal to Sam, or to anyone else...
After Sam had fallen asleep and the household was quiet, Frodo got up and put on his dressing gown, then slipped down the hallway to the last door at the end, the boys' bedroom. He tapped gently once, then peeked into the room. One bed was empty--Moro was out in the loft with Sandy--but the other was occupied.
"Mosco?" Frodo whispered. "Are you awake?"
Mosco sighed loudly and shifted beneath his blankets, but did not lift his head to look at Frodo. "'m awake."
"Tell me--do you know where Fleetfoot is?"
"No, Uncle Frodo." The boy sobbed. "I wish I did!"
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