It was six in the morning, and Tom Cotton was in the barn milking. Not exactly his favorite morning activity. Tom didn’t mind it as much as his wife let on. After all, he was an early riser and originally from a farming family. But he had gotten soft and out-of-touch with a farming routine since he and Marigold moved into Hobbiton. He had forgotten how physically demanding milking was on a person’s hands, and now they ached. He was more used to skilled labor such as leather work which was his current profession. That took a toll on your hands as well, but in a much different way.

Tom sat down on the little three-legged stool and settled his cheek and shoulder against the rough warm coat of Ginny, the elder of the two milkers. She was an experienced cow, used to different hands having a go at her abundant utter. Rose always chose Ginny when introducing one of her brood to the barnyard animals. Kind, patient, good-natured Ginny. Never was cross or mean to the children, even when they bumped her or used a teat as a weapon for squirting milk at one of their unsuspecting siblings. She didn’t even mind give up a squirt or two to the barn cats.

Frodo-lad was out with his uncle, milking Splotchy, the second and much younger cow. Frodo-lad had been milking the family cows for three years now, getting up with his father before the sun showed her face across the Hill. Splotchy had been acquired only last March and she was still a bit skittish with a stranger. Frodo-lad let Splotchy’s calf nuzzle up against his mother, providing the poor heifer some familiarity in the unfamiliar and much smaller barn. Neither hobbit said much as they tended to the work at hand.

Since Frodo-lad was eleven, he was expected to follow along with his uncle and learn about the trades. All hobbit males of this age were sent around to various families to learn a trade. Or least be exposed to the variety of skills necessary to fit into hobbit life in the Shire. Sometimes the lad was loaned out to a family for a year or two as an apprentice, if the lad showed a real interest and aptitude for the profession. But Frodo Gardner was only just starting his years of tutoring in the trades. He actually had no idea what he wanted to do when he grew up. Uncle Fro told him to not worry about it, so he didn’t.

Tom wasn’t that close to his numerous nephews and nieces, even though he liked them all well enough. He was always too busy with work to go along with the group family outings which his sister Rose loved so much. But he had a soft spot for Frodo-lad in his heart. Frodo looked so much like a combination of Gamgee and Cotton, it was as if Tom looked upon his and Marigold’s own child. And Frodo was a kind, soft-spoken lad prone to thoughtfulness and well-considered actions. A steady, solid gentlehobbit in the making. Tom approved of that. If only Frodo were his son.

Tom shook his head. ‘No use dwellin’ on might-have-beens,’ he thought.

“Uncle Tom?”

Tom’s halfway reverie was interrupted. “What?”

“What day is it?” Frodo asked from behind the cow.

“Tis Friday,” Tom replied, renewing his efforts to complete the milking and get back inside his home for something to eat.

“No…um…I mean, what day of the month is it?” Frodo asked.

“Let’s see now. I figure it’s the fifteenth. Why?” Tom finished with Ginny and stood up, picking up the full milk pail.

Frodo-lad’s eyebrows knitted in concentration. “Well, it’s…It’s the day when Uncle Fro and I were supposed to make the rounds out to the Puddlifoot farm at Overhill. I know Uncle Fro was very keen on going out there today and taking me with him. But he can’t. I don’t know if I should do it for him or let it slide. Or maybe Dad should do it.” Frodo also stood up with his full milk pail. “I’m unsure as to what to do.”

“First things first, me boy,” Tom replied. “Let’s finish up here, look to the animals, and then we’ll take a few minutes to discuss it over second breakfast.”

Second breakfast was in chaos. Tom and Frodo walked through the back door of the house to find Marigold with her hands full tending to the smallest children. The older ones (Rose, Merry and Pippin) were left to fend for themselves. Tom snagged young Merry before he had a chance to run past his uncle and out of the kitchen with a handful of biscuits.

“All of you! Sit down right now!” Tom bellowed as he spun Merry about and deposited him on the rough wooden bench on the close side of the table next to little Pippin. Merry returned the biscuits to the warming basket. Pippin quickly tried to swallow some toast with jam, and only managed to make a terrible mess all over his face and also at the place setting in front of him.

Little Rose quickly put the plate of sizzling sausages down onto the table, then plunked herself onto the bench beside her two brothers. Frodo frowned suspiciously at his sister, who promptly stuck her tongue out at him and crossed her arms.

“We will have order at this table!” Tom demanded.

Pippin giggled, spewing toast and jam crumbs across the table. He thought that even more funny, until he saw the dark visages of his uncle and his eldest brother descend upon him full force. He clasped one hand over his mouth to stop his giggling fit, smearing blackberry jam across one cheek and even getting some on the tip of his nose.

“Thank the stars you’re here,” Marigold sighed, one hand holding little Daisy balanced on one hip while the other hand continued to scramble a mountain of eggs. Hamfast and Goldilocks stood at her feet, both sucking their thumbs and clinging to either side of her skirt and apron. Little Sammie was again in his basket which was set atop the table next to the crisp fried bacon. His bright blue eyes were wide awake taking in everything going on within a few feet of his limited range of vision. He laughed and drooled at seeing Tom, his baby arms waving spasmodically in his own greeting.

Once order was restored, the extended family settled into second breakfast in earnest. Rose and Merry were delegated clean up duty while Pippin was sent to take his second bath of the day. Marigold’s friend and next-door neighbor, Mrs. Candy Smallborrows, had come by to help, so the smaller children were well-tended. Tom refilled his mug with tea and beckoned Frodo to follow him into the study. Tom closed the door to give them some much needed privacy.

“Tell me again, lad, why it’s so important for you to go to Overhill today,” Tom said as he settled down into the comfortable leather chair.

Frodo stood in the center of the round braided rag rug and clasped his hands behind his back. Tom had to suppress a sudden urge to chuckle. Frodo’s mannerisms were exactly the same as his father’s.

Frodo cleared his throat. “Uncle Fro and I are supposed to go to the family farm at Overhill today and look in on Mrs. Puddlifoot.”

Tom was well aware that Frodo Baggins was training Frodo-lad to someday become the heir of Bag End and all its outlying properties. Tom knew that the Master of Bag End was a wealthy landowner and that entailed numerous responsibilities. Frodo Baggins’ landholdings reached well into the North Farthing as well as the Bag End and Underhill estates. But Tom didn’t know that Mr. Baggins had started including his namesake in some of the behind-the-scene workings of the estates. “Tell me, how long have you been accompanying your Uncle Frodo on his tours to the farms?”

“This will be my third trip,” Frodo said.

“Well, you can see that this trip will have to be postponed,” Tom said.

Frodo looked distinctly uncomfortable, looking down at his toes and shifting from one foot to the other. “But…well…you see…I don’t think you understand. We need to go visit Mrs. Puddlifoot today. Or at least somebody has to go see her today.”

“Why?” Tom asked.

Frodo looked up in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Uncle Tom, but Uncle Fro told me to not discuss this outside the family.”

“I’m family, aren’t I?” Tom snorted.

“Yes! Certainly, Uncle Tom!” Frodo stammered. “I didn’t mean it that way. I think Uncle Fro meant I wasn’t to discuss it outside of my Dad or him or me.”

“Frodo,” Tom gently said, “you’ve asked my advice on what to do. I can’t give you advice unless you tell me the facts. Now, I’m sure your Uncle Frodo wouldn’t mind you telling me under these special circumstances. After all, we’re all related – Cottons, Gamgees and Bagginses.”

Frodo thought about it for a few seconds, then sat down on the side chair next to his uncle. “Each month we visit a different outlying property owned by Uncle Fro. I’m finding out there are many different farms, pastures and woodlands, and Uncle Fro visits a different one each month. He makes it a point to personally visit each one at least once a year to see for himself how the farm and the farmers are getting along. He likes to consult with them about planning for the next year. He talks with the share croppers and farm hands about the running of the businesses. But he told me he also does it to keep an eye out for potential trouble spots.”

“What do you do when you go out there?” Tom asked.

“We survey the land on foot and check the record books which the farmers have to keep. But we also keep in touch with how the various hobbit families who work for the Bagginses are getting along. Uncle Fro tells me one not only takes care of the land, but also takes care of the people. He says that with great wealth comes great responsibilities. And someday I might be the Master of Bag End, so I have to learn how to do it properly.

“This month we were to visit the Puddlifoots at the wheat farms in the Overhill area. Do you know them?” Frodo asked.

“Yes,” Tom replied. He knew the Puddlifoot from his childhood. “Old Farmer Puddlifoot and his wife are well on in years.”

“Right,” said Frodo. “They did not have any children. But now it’s just Mrs. Puddlifoot. Mr. P was ill for some time. As he became less and less able to take care of the farm, Uncle Fro hired helpers for him. But Mr. P died last month. And Mrs. P can’t manage the farm by herself. I’m sure Uncle Fro has a plan for how to deal with the situation. But I don’t know what the plan is. The one thing I’m certain of that that today is the day Widow Puddlifoot is expecting the Master of Bag End to visit. She doesn’t know about Uncle Fro’s illness. What should I do, Uncle Tom?”

“Tell you what,” Tom said, standing and pulling Frodo to his feet. “I’ll send Rosie-lass into town to tell Mr. Brown I’m taking a day off work. I’ll take you with me to Bag End. We’ll ask Sam or Frodo what we should do.”

When the pair arrived at Bag End, Elanor greeted them at the door with a wide smile.

“He’s better!” Frodo exclaimed, hugging his sister and swinging her around on the steps of the doorway.

“Yes!” Elanor said. “Uncle Tom! So good to see you. Please come in.”

“Can I see him?” Frodo asked.

“Frodo-lad! Is that you I hear?” Tom could hear his brother-in-law’s voice coming from the kitchen. Tom liked Samwise Gamgee, and not only because he was married to Tom’s only sister. Tom had been Sam’s friend for many, many years. When Sam was not tending the Bag End gardens, he was always over at the Cotton family farm when they were both lads. Any excuse for Sam to get his hands into the earth and learn more about growing things; and also any excuse to see Rosie Cotton and her brothers. Sam and Tom had spent many a summer and autumn harvest together in Farmer Cotton’s fields and in the big barn. Tom knew Sam’s heart belonged to the Shire from the ground up, and respected the Mayor all the more for his continued devotion to keeping the Shire as lush and beautiful and peaceful as was possible. Tom also knew that Sam’s devotion to what he loved was absolute; and that included not only his sister, Rose, but also Mister Frodo Baggins.

‘Bit of an odd duck, our Samwise,’ Tom thought. ‘Never could see what he saw in Mister Baggins. But ‘taint my business to be stickin’ my nose in where it don’t belong. And Rosie couldn’t ask for a better husband and father. The Shire couldn’t ask for a better Mayor, too.’

The object of Tom’s reflections came round the corner, wiping his wet hands on a tea towel. “Frodo-lad!” he bellowed, and engulfed his son in a bear hug. “Missed you mightily, me boy! Tom!” Tom was hugged equally tightly.

“Where’s Frodo, Sam?” Tom asked. “The lad and I need to speak with him, if he’s up to having visitors.”

Sam’s bright smile vanished. “He’s in the living room. He can have visitors now, but not too long. And no excitement. No rough housing and no loud noises. Understand?”

Tom and Frodo-lad found the Master of Bag End relaxing in an over-stuffed wing-backed armchair pulled next to the fireplace. He was reading a little book and sipping on a hot cut of something. It didn’t smell like tea. Tom thought Frodo looked terrible; far too thin and pale for a normal hobbit his age. The clean white linen shirt and matched chocolate-colored breeches and waistcoat looked too loose on his frame. Frodo also had on a heather-colored sweater. Tom was relieved to find Mr. Baggins sitting comfortably, fully awake and in his right mind.

“Tom. Tom Cotton. Good to see you. Please have a chair.” Frodo gestured towards the couch opposite his chair, but did not get up. A warm smile spread across his face upon seeing young Frodo-lad. The youngster strode over to the chair and kissed his uncle on the cheek. Tom thought Frodo-lad would start crying at any moment, but he managed to control his emotions.

“I’ve missed you too, my boy,” Frodo said. His own voice was tight with emotion. Frodo-lad sat on the floor cross-legged at his uncle’s feet. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow,” Frodo said. “Rose said she would go collect everyone then. What brings you here early?”

“It’s the fifteenth,” Frodo-lad said, looking up at his uncle.

“Oh,” was all that passed Frodo’s lips. He looked from the youth to Tom and then back to Frodo-lad. “I can’t go.”

“I know,” Frodo-lad replied. “I can go if you tell me what to do.”

Tom tried to not look directly at either Frodo, but the elder caught his eye with his legendary keen gaze.

“How much do you know, Tom?” Frodo quietly asked.

Tom leaned forward so that his elbows rested on his knees. “There’s no blame on the lad. He only told me that the two of you need to go to Overhill today to do some business with Widow Puddlifoot. What that business is…he didn’t say and I didn’t ask. But I’ll help you out in any way I can. I’ve taken the day off from work. If you want the boy and me to go over there and represent you, why I’ll do that. Just tell us what to do.”

Frodo nodded his agreement to the proposal. “Let’s go into my study. I need to write some instructions.” Frodo-lad leapt to his feet, eager to help support his Uncle Fro stand and walk. “It’s all right, my boy,” Frodo chuckled. “I’m not that bad off any more. But please be a dear and bring my tea cup, would you?”

Frodo-lad took a sniff and wrinkled his nose. “Ugh. That’s not tea. What’s in there? One of Mom’s concoctions?”

“It’s beef tea, and some herbs your mother insists I need. She will kill me if I don’t finish it off. She’s trying to fatten me back up.”

They went into the study where Frodo sat at his desk and started to write. “Frodo-lad, give this to Mrs. Puddlifoot, but do so in private,” he said. “She can’t read, so you’ll have to read it for her. I don’t want anyone else in the room when you do so. This is extremely important. It concerns financial matters between her late husband and myself.” Frodo turned to Tom. “Would you help out by keeping all the farm hands and idle curious occupied while Frodo does this business with Mrs. Puddlifoot?”

“Sure,” Tom replied.

“I would also appreciate it if you take special note of how the wheat farm is doing under the new farmers. Is it well tended? Any tares or weeds in the wheat? Are the fences and lanes in good condition? Do the animals appear healthy and content? Talk with the Chillcots – that’s Andwise and Amalda Chillcot. I hired them last year to work the Puddlifoot farm. Get a feel for how well the farm is doing, or if they’ve run into any problems.” Frodo finished writing, folded the envelop, applied sealing wax to it, and handed it to Frodo-lad. “If she has any questions, tell her to come see me.”

Frodo turned again to Tom. “Now Tom, please don’t tell anyone about what you’re about to see.” Frodo stood and placed his hand on his namesake’s shoulder, guiding him to the large wooden chest to the left of the fireplace. “Unload the wood,” he instructed.

Underneath the woodpile Frodo-lad came upon a small chest with thick iron bands and a heavy iron padlock. Frodo handed the lad an ornate key. “Open it,” was all he said.

Tom gasped upon seeing the chest’s contents. Bright gold, silver and copper coins stacked in neat piles gleamed in the morning sunlight. Frodo knelt down and removed a small ledger book, briefly writing something in it with a charcoal he had brought with him from the desk. He then selected several of each type of coin and slipped them into one of several non-descript brown leather pouches in the lockbox, drawing the string closure tight. He handed the coin purse to Frodo-lad.

“Lock the chest and re-stack the wood, please.”

“Not a word, Tom,” Frodo quietly said as Frodo-lad reassembled the woodpile. “Take the good carriage. Must maintain appearances. I’m sure Strider would welcome a bit of exercise.” Frodo picked up his cup and took a long swallow of the broth.

“Please let me know how everything goes,” he said as they walked back into the living room. “And Tom,” he said as he resumed his seat by the fire, “thank you so much. I know I can rely on your discretion in this family matter.”

As Tom and Frodo-lad turned to leave, Tom couldn’t help but notice again how pale Frodo seemed. The illness had taken a lot out of him. But if anyone could work a miracle with Frodo Baggins, it was Rose and Sam. ‘The Shire needs more kind folk like Frodo,’ Tom thought as they hitched the chestnut gelding pony to the two-seater carriage.

The ride to the Puddlifoot farm was uneventful. Tom found Mrs. Puddlifoot and the Chillcots waiting for them beside the neatly trimmed roses lining the lane. Everyone expressed concern upon hearing of Master Baggins’ illness, but seemed greatly relieved upon meeting young Frodo. While Tom was proudly shown about the tidy farm by the Chillcots, Frodo quietly had his private meeting with Mrs. Puddlifoot. The widow insisted they stay for lunch. She broke into tears at watching them leave, but the Chillcots stood by her side to render comfort.

Tom heard a “Bless you, Master Baggins” come wafting on the warm afternoon breeze as they rounded the bend in the lane leading back to Bag End. Frodo-lad shrugged and said, “I’m often called that by the farmers. Force of habit, I guess.”

Nephew and Uncle rode in silence for awhile before Tom finally spoke. “Does your Uncle Frodo often give out money like that on your trips?”

Frodo-lad looked into the distant fields before replying. “No. But he takes care of more folk than anyone in the Shire realizes. That wasn’t exactly a hand-out. Uncle Fro talked to Old Farmer Puddlifoot a few years ago about putting some money aside for his wife in case he died. Uncle Fro agreed to be his banker and hold the money in trust. Now it’s the only income Mrs. Puddlifoot has. Uncle Fro showed me the books last month. What he sent over today is one year’s payout, plus some extra he sent himself from his own reserves. He’s also arranged for the Chillcots to move in with Widow Puddlifoot and take care of her for the rest of her life.”

Tom grunted and nodded. “He’s always been that way, lad. He learned how to be Master of Bag End from his uncle, Bilbo Baggins. Master Bilbo taught Master Frodo well.” Tom turned to look at his young nephew. “And I think Master Frodo has also chosen his eventual successor well. Keep a nimble ear and a sharp mind and learn everything you can from your Uncle Fro. He’s the wisest hobbit in the Shire, and probably the most kind. Save maybe for your mother and father who take care of him. Perhaps one day you might end up being the Master of Bag End.”