Bag-End felt very much like a fortress of sorts when Uncle Bilbo went out.
It all started with the visitation of the notorious Sackville-Bagginses, an experience that motivated young Master Frodo to invest in both a number of different padlocks and a series of incognito cameras. The Sackvilles, you see, were a crafty folk. They would wait until Mister Bilbo went out, knowing full well that Bag-End would be left in the care of his helpless ninny-of-a-nephew. And when the hour was ripe, they would swoop in like a gaggle of portly vultures and pilfer the various treasures that lay about the little home.
This time Uncle Bilbo had left on a matter of great importance: His eleventy-first birthday was but a few calender days away, and the need to fetch party-favors was at hand. So he buttoned up his little jacket, combed his foot-hairs, and departed for Took-Mart®.
Not ten minutes had elapsed, and already poor Frodo had found himself in the most unfortunate of pickles. His body was adorned with an armor that consisted entirely of kitchen utensils, and his face was smeared with strawberry jam (it is a little known fact that strawberry jam may function as a menacing sort of war-paint, as well as a tasty snack). Little known facts aside, young Master Frodo was preparing for the most intense afternoon of his life.
He started at the sound of the brass knocker against the door. In a simpler time, he would have picked himself up and greeted his guest with cheerful, hobbit-ey enthusiasm. Now, his initial instinct was to dive into the cellar and wait until the Sackville-Bagginses had purged the house of anything remotely of value. However, he could not act on that instinct either-instead, he thought it better to survey the security cameras first, to ensure that the visitor wasn't just some errant sales-hobbit or the like.
But neither Sackville nor sales-hobbit was to be found on the doorstep that morning. Rather, a tall bearded man clad entirely in gray could be seen hunched on the stoop, waiting patiently at the rounded door. In his hand he wielded a twisted walking stick; on his head was perched a curious pointed hat.
Frodo squinted at the camera footage. He'd never seen a man of his like before-indeed, men scarcely traveled through the Shire as it was. He concluded that the fellow on the doorstep was most likely lost, and in need of some direction. So he grudgingly made his way to the dreaded door (still garbed in jam and kitchen instruments, if you recall), and greeted his stray visitor.
The old gray fellow raised his eyebrows at the hobbit's ungainly appearance, but wisely said nothing of it. "Good morning," he said, tipping his hat. "Would you be able to point me in the direction of the nearest gas station? I'm afraid my carriage has run dry."
"There are no gas stations in the Shire," replied Frodo. "We hobbits rarely ever venture out of doors. And when we do, we stuff our faces with protein bars and never travel anywhere further than a mile."
"Alas. What a shame," said the man, in a voice that suggested that it wasn't really a shame at all. "Can I bother you for a place to stay tonight? It's been a long journey, and, well, my old limbs are tired."
Frodo hesitated. Like most hobbits, he wasn't all too pleased with unexpected company-company which could very well be a Sackville hoax as a means to penetrate Bag-End. But even if the situation was no-Sackvilles-attached, what would Uncle Bilbo say? "For Eru's sake, Frodo! I leave for twenty minutes, and already you've gone and let a vagrant into the house." The very thought of it made the poor young Frodo shudder.
But alas, hobbits are notorious for being cursed with two inherent perils: the first being a predisposal to diabetes, and the second being the incessant nagging of a guilty conscious. So it was only natural that he would feel bad for the old hat, and eventually, he obliged."Is your carriage very far, then?" he asked.
"It's stopped right outside, actually. A happy coincidence."
"Indeed," muttered Frodo. "Have you any luggage?"
"Ah, yes! Fireworks, I'd forgotten about the fireworks. Say, would you mind putting a kettle on? I'll be back in a jiffy."
Frodo was too vexed at the moment to be bothered with the dangerous idea of fireworks being brought into the house. He scanned the yard for any Sackville activity, and retired into the kitchen. Grumbling to himself, he prepared the tea kettle for his guest, shed his ridiculous cutlery-and-jam attire, and slumped into a nearby armchair. He supposed he'd have to reschedule drinks with the lads tonight, considering he now had a guest to entertain.
To Frodo's dismay, the wizened man had returned-with Uncle Bilbo at his side. Well, at least he wouldn't have to introduce him now, though he would've liked to have hidden his visitor's explosive cargo before his uncle had arrived.
"Ah, Uncle Bilbo!" exclaimed Frodo, heralding the elder hobbit. "I see you've met our guest, Mister, um..." Drat! He'd forgotten to ask for a name.
"Gandalf," supplied his grocery-burdened uncle. "Yes, we know each other quite well. And you, Master Frodo, should know quite well that we know each other quite well. Why, I've only told you the story of the Lonely Mountain a billion times."
"Yes, Bilbo," replied an exasperated Frodo, who had decided to disregard his uncle's redundant use of the words ‘quite' and ‘well.' "Though, in my defense, your stories are decidedly boring, and have caused me to fall asleep on numerous accounts."
"Pah! You have the attention span of a goldfish," sniffed Bilbo. "Gandalf, old mate-has my wayward nephew been any decent? Has he put the kettle on for you?'
"He has," said Gandalf, with a smile. "I do believe that all hobbits are equipped with at least a fraction of decency."
"Not the Sackvilles," huffed Frodo. "They're as venomous as adders, and every bit as ugly."
Gandalf, who hadn't the slightest inkling as to who the Sackvilles were, could only smile in polite confusion. He then turned his attention to Bilbo, who had busied himself with the plastic-bound party favors. "Remind me again, dear Bilbo. What year are you turning?"
Bilbo looked up from his mound of party-favors. "Eleventy-One," he boasted. "Tell me Gandalf, have you ever met an old hobbit who was filled with such vigor?"
"Yes, I think I have," said Gandalf, stroking his beard. "Your grandfather, the Old Took. Docile as a dotard, I'd say, until he went on that cocaine-spree and acted completely batshit for a week."
Both Bilbo and Frodo proceeded to stare at Gandalf with identical astonishment. "He died almost immediately," added the wizard, as if this would clear up any misunderstandings.
"Well I never," sputtered Bilbo at long last.
"I'll say," choked Master Frodo.
"Indeed," concurred the old wizard. "Say, is the water almost ready? And do you happen to have any Earl Grey?"
