"MB," said Frodo, flipping over the corner of the handkerchief in his hand to examine the initials embroidered in the corner. "Merry Brandybuck. Marly Brandybuck. Milo Burrows, Mosco Burrows, Moro Burrows."

"I don't think it's Mosco's nor Moro's," said Sam. "If those lads remember to carry a hanky at all, it's sure to be dirtier'n that one. That looks like it's fresh out o' the laundry, and hot-ironed."

"True," Frodo agreed. "But it's more peculiar if it belongs to someone like Merry or Marly or Milo. It's not a lady's delicate lace handkerchief, but a pony-fancying type of woman might have one like it. Myrtle Broombindle? I've seen her here today with her mother, and a girl of four-and-twenty is more likely to have a handkerchief with her than a boy not yet twenty. I don't know Mrs. Broombindle's first name."

"Myra," Sam supplied.

"Another MB! I never realized how many hobbits I know with those initials, Sam. There's plenty more. Half the Brandybuck family, male and female! It wouldn't be so very odd if it were Moro's, Mosco's, or even Miss Myrtle's. At least, they're still of an age to climb trees. What reason would a grown hobbit have to be up there?"

Frodo and Sam both lifted their eyes. Above them spread the clustered leaves and sturdy boughs of a tall oak tree, from which the monogrammed handkerchief had just fallen. The handkerchief was clean, unused, and neatly folded into a compact square. In such a condition, it couldn't possibly have been blown up onto the tree by the wind. Nor could it have been tossed at them from someone on the ground around the grassy dell where they were sitting. It could only have fallen out of a hobbit's pocket while he was up in the oak tree.

"D'you suppose he's still up there?" Sam wondered.

"It is possible," Frodo admitted. Were they being spied on? If so, he felt they'd done nothing to be ashamed of, though they might've had some reason to feel embarrassed a few minutes from now if they hadn't been interrupted.

While pony-racing enthusiasts were gathering on the nearby Bridgefields to look at the ponies and place wagers, the first race wouldn't be until noon. Frodo--who was never very enthusiastic about the races--had grown bored with these preliminaries and decided to seek his own entertainment. Taking Sam by the hand, he'd suggested that they pass the time before the first race in a more pleasant manner, then led his friend away from the crowds in search of some place more private. This dell, tucked down amid the cover of bushes and trees, appeared to be wonderfully secluded. They'd made themselves comfortable on the grass and were about to kiss, when this folded linen square had dropped down upon them.

"Hello!" he called upwards, and received only silence in reply.

"I'll go see." Sam rose and went over to the trunk of the oak to clamber up. He disappeared into the thick covering of leaves, and reappeared a few minutes later, inching his way out onto a bough that passed directly over the place where they'd been sitting. Frodo watched with apprehension as Sam made his way out onto this branch as far as he dared; he didn't call up to Sam, for fear of startling him and making him lose his balance, but held his breath until Sam had had a look around, then came back down.

"Nobody's up there now," Sam reported once he'd safely regained the ground.

"He couldn't have come down too long ago," said Frodo. "Even if this dropped out of his pocket onto the branch, it wasn't sitting there for more than a few minutes. It couldn't be. If it wasn't to spy on us, then what was MB doing up in that tree? What did you see from up there, Sam?"

"Mostly other trees, and the river over that way." Sam waved in a generally eastward direction. Then he had an idea. "You can't see it from down here, Frodo, but once I was about thirty feet up, I could look over that fence that's at the top o' the hill and see down into the pony pen on the other side."

Frodo saw his friend's point. "So MB perhaps wasn't spying on us. Was he was spying on the ponies and their owners?"

---

They'd come to the Bridgefields for the last races of the season. Not all pony-fanciers had the resources to breed or keep fast ponies specifically for racing; most needed their best ponies for farm work during the crucial periods of haymaking and harvest. The Bridgefields were miles of flat water-meadows that ran along the western bank of the Brandywine river; they were often flooded during the winter, but in the summer they provided a perfect place to race ponies for long, straight stretches.

Frodo and Sam had ridden up with Merry and Merry's distant cousin and local land-agent, Marleduc Brandybuck, the night before and taken rooms at the Buckshead Inn, just beyond the Bridge on the Buckland side of the river. Frodo's cousin Milo Burrows and his two eldest sons, who were bringing their new pony to race, were staying with Milo's mother in nearby Budgeford; Frodo proposed to return with them to visit his aunt after the races were done. The two parties had met on the Bridgefields that morning, then almost immediately parted company.

While the pursuit of a monogrammed handkerchief's owner wasn't the way he'd hoped to pass the rest of the morning, Frodo felt he had to take up the task.

"I'm sorry, my dear Sam," he apologized to his companion as he scrambled up the steep slope of the dell. "If this MB intends some mischief or dishonest dealings, I can't simply sit by and let him when I might've prevented it. I'd feel horrible about it, almost as if I'd aided him. We must try to find out which MB that handkerchief belongs to before the races begin."

Sam would also have preferred a cuddle to an investigation, but he didn't complain. In the first place, he knew that Frodo wouldn't be able to rest or relax while this problem was on his mind. In the second place, he knew how seriously pony fanciers took these races.

"Now... Where are all of our MBs?" Frodo paused just outside the entrance to the pony-yard, at the southern end of the racing field, and scanned the crowds. "I don't see Merry, nor Marly. Milo and his sons are surely in there--" he indicated the fenced-in area. "Did you see them when you were up in that tree?"

Sam shook his head. "There was near as many folk in there as out here, and the ponies too."

"A pity. If they have been there since we left them, they couldn't possibly have been climbing trees at the same time. But let's begin with them."

Before Frodo sought out Milo, he sent Sam to find Mrs. Broombindle and her daughter and see if they too had been in the pony-yard all morning. If possible, Sam must also try to find out if either was missing a handkerchief.

"Now how'm I to do that?" Sam wondered. "I can't just ask."

"Why can't you? Here." Frodo gave him the handkerchief. "Say you found it dropped on the ground in the yard and wondered if it might belong to either of them."

Sam was doubtful about the plausibility of this--no handkerchief could remain pristine on the ground for long with so many hobbits and ponies around--but he accepted it and went on his errand.

---

Milo Burrows stood with a small crowd gathered around him while he curried and showed off a black colt with a distinctive white blaze on its brow and nose that resembled a candlestick; the colt was named Candlestick because of it. While Candlestick was the offspring of the famous Fleetfloot, the young pony was new to the Bridgefield races. Its speed and merits were unknown and many were curious to see if he would do as well as his sire.

"Who's going to ride him today?" Frodo asked Milo once he'd reached his cousin.

"Not me," said Milo's younger son Moro dispiritedly as he sat perched on the top rail of the pen fence.

"They say he's too young and too light, and it wouldn't be fair to the grown hobbits riding against him," Milo explained. "I've convinced them to accept Mosco as our rider, otherwise I'd have to ride Candlestick myself! I haven't ridden a race in years, and I've never ridden Candlestick. He's the boys' pony. I don't know how he'd take me, and I'd hate to test it on his first run here."

Frodo detected the nervousness behind his cousin's confidential tone. Candlestick had begun his career last summer at Michel Delving with a certain skittishness and even though he'd run several times since then, Milo still wasn't as sure of his new pony as he'd been of Fleetfoot. "Where is Mosco?" he asked, and looked around for Milo's eldest son.

"He's gone to have a look at the other ponies," said Milo, "but he'd better be back soon. We're in the first race of the day."

"Have you and Moro had a chance to look at the competition?" asked Frodo.

"I have, Uncle Frodo," said Moro.

"I haven't," said Milo. "Somebody has to stay here with Candlestick at all times."

---

Sam, meanwhile, had found Mrs. Broombindle. He knew her rather better than Frodo did, for he and Rosie had spent their honeymoon in a cottage owned by her. This was the first time they'd seen each other since Rosie's death, and Mrs. Broombindle stopped her preparations for her own pony's debut to express her deepest sympathies for his loss. She was a widow herself, bringing up a daughter alone, and she knew just what Sam must be feeling.

"It's the hardest thing in the world at first, Sam Gamgee," she told him, "but if you've got a young un depending on you--and you've got four--you've got sommat to hold on to and carry on for. And you won't believe me right off, but I tell you it gets so as you can bear it better as time goes on."

"I know that," said Sam. "It isn't as hard now as it first was." Then, since he would rather not go on talking about his bereavement, he said, "You don't usually come out this way."

"No," she agreed, "but Mr. Milo said I ought to come to the Bridgefields if I want Twinkletoes here to be a first-class long-course runner. You know how my lass Myrtle does best at the jumps, but she's keen to try the long races. She was keen to come anyways, for she's never been so far from home before."

"Where is the lass?"

"Off looking at the other ponies with Mr. Milo's lad." As she returned her attentions to the shaggy brown pony, a twinkle appeared in her eye. "And maybe it's not the ponies that brings `em together."

---

"I have happy memories of this place, Frodo. My father used to bring me here to the Bridgefields when I was a lad, even younger than my sons are now," Milo confided after he had sent Moro off in search of his brother. He was briskly brushing down Candlestick as he talked. "We didn't have a pony of our own to race most of the time. Father bought one once or twice, but it never turned out well for him. But he loved to see them run and loved to put his wagers on them even when he was down to his last penny, and he left me with that same love for the sport. I've brought my own sons up the same way, but the odd thing is Mosco and Moro don't seem to have any interest in placing wagers at all. It's the riding they enjoy, and winning races for the fun of it. That ought to save them some trouble when they're grown, although I've been wondering lately if Mosco isn't finding some other appeal at the races."

"Whatever do you mean?" wondered Frodo.

"Myrtle Broombindle."

"Surely not!" Frodo exclaimed. "Mosco's not even in his tweens."

"Well, I don't say it's a grown-up romance, but both boys have been racing against young Myrtle since last summer. You know what a talented rider she is. They think the world of her. Even if he is only nineteen, Mosco's of an age to be a bit sweet on a girl who can out-ride him. I doubt anything will come of it. Myrtle's five years older than Mosco. By the time he's old enough to think seriously about girls, she'll already have sweethearts closer to her own age among the farm-lads, and Mosco will end up mooning after some other pretty girl whether she rides well or not." As he turned to pick up the pony's saddle, Milo peered anxiously over the heads of the hobbits around them. "Now where are those boys? It's nearly time for us to start."

Currying the pony had worked Milo into a sweat. Once he had placed the saddle across Candlestick's back, he reach into his waistcoat pocket; out came a crumpled handkerchief, which he used to dab his brow. An M and B were embroidered in the corner, but Frodo could see that beneath these letters was a tiny pink peony. He'd seen others like it before: they were the handiwork of Milo's wife, Peony.

"It can't be Milo, Sam, and I doubt it's Mrs. Broombindle," Frodo told his friend when they met again. "They haven't left their ponies all morning, and there are plenty of hobbits to swear to it if need be."

When he'd left Milo, Frodo went to talk to the sturdy young no-nonsense hobbit who stood at the entrance to the pony-pen to keep an eye out for rowdies and mischief-makers; this youth was also an auxiliary shirriff at Budgeford and had been involved in two of Frodo's more exciting investigations in that small town--as he never tired of telling his friends. Before Frodo could ask his own questions, he too had to hear the young hobbit's reminisces about the search for poor Mrs. Stillwaters and the hunt for that fellow who'd poisoned his Took lady-friend, only it turned out he hadn't. When Frodo could ask, he learned that Milo Burrows, who was well-known in Budgeford, hadn't gone out past the gate since he'd first come in. The young hobbit didn't know Mrs. Broombindle, but there were only few women who managed their own ponies and he was sure that none of them had gone out either.

"The children?" Frodo considered them next. "Mosco and Myrtle are possible, since they've been wandering about, but it seems unlikely. As you've pointed out, Sam, a neatly laundered and folded handkerchief can hardly belong to a boy under twenty. Besides, Myrtle and Milo's sons have much better opportunities to look over the other ponies closely from here inside the yard than they would from a precarious perch in a tree outside it."

As they headed out of the pony-pen, Frodo caught sight of the two youngsters, who were shyly conversing with another pony's owner. The owner, a local farmer, was pleased at their interest but didn't seem to realize that the young boy and girl were experienced riders themselves. The two children were holding hands.

"On the other hand, this notion of Mosco and Myrtle running around together has put another possibility into my mind, Sam. The two of them might've been up to some mischief that has nothing to do with the races. If they were just a little older, I might even wonder if they'd gone to the dell for the same reason you and I did..."

"Mrs. Broombindle doesn't think there's anything to it," Sam answered. "Sweet they might be, but they're too young for that sort o' mischief! Besides, the Burrowses are friendly with the Broombindles, but all the same Milo'd keep an eye on his lad. He'd naturally want a better match for Mosco than a farm-lass. If it was those two, mind you, it was just fun and games. It can't be Mrs. Broombindle, I'm sure of that! While we was talking, I asked her if she dropped her hanky. She said she hadn't, and showed me the one she kept in her dress pocket. `Twas plain, with not a trace of embroidery to be seen--not like this un at all." He returned the MB handkerchief to Frodo.

"Yes, and Milo's handkerchief is embroidered in quite a different style from the one we found--which I ought to have realized sooner. Peony sews his." Frodo examined the initials on the handkerchief Sam had just returned to him. "This one is done in a more professional style. There's less of a personal touch to the lettering. A tailor's work, I'd swear to it. Mr. Threadnibble does just the same sort of sewing on all my linen. Therefore, Sam, we ought to be looking for an unmarried hobbit, who doesn't have a loving wife to do his sewing for him, or one of expensive tastes. Or both."

As they passed outside the pony-pen, Frodo's eyes were still on the handkerchief in his hand and he would have bumped into a pair of well-dressed hobbits who were just on their way in, if Sam hadn't taken his arm. Frodo looked up to find himself facing Ludovic Binglebottom, a feckless dandy from Whitfurrows, and another dandified youth whom he didn't know. The meeting was a little awkward.

"Ah- Mr. Binglebottom, hello," he said. "I didn't expect to run into you here. Are your friends Darco Underhaye and Setwale Biggs-Wither with you?" Frodo had last encountered the trio at the Buckshead Inn, when he'd been hiding in disguise as a widow. Setwale had in fact tried to court the widow, under the impression that she was wealthy. Fortunately, Mr. Binglebottom didn't recognize him as the mysterious Mrs. Underhill.

"Oh, they're about somewhere," Ludovic answered. "They wouldn't miss the last racing day of this season. I didn't know you knew Setty, Mr. Baggins."

"Yes, we met once," Frodo said quickly, to cover his mistake.

"He never mentioned it. Was it during one of your investigations? I would've thought that any hobbit who's met you while you're asking your questions has a tale to tell! I know I do. But never mind the unpleasant past now, not when it's such a pleasant day. I was just showing my cousin around. Mr. Baggins, may I introduce Medovic Binglebottom?" Ludovic gestured toward his companion. "Meddy, this is the famous detective, Frodo Baggins."

Frodo exchanged a quick glance with Sam. Here was another MB, one whose clothing declared a taste for expensive tailoring!

"Your servant, Mr. Baggins," said Medovic with a graceful little bow, then bowed to Sam even though he hadn't been introduced. "`Tis a vast honor to meet you! Luddy's often told me how he once assisted you with one of your cases--his poor friend Val Stillwaters, and poor, poor Mrs. Stillwaters. But I'm afraid I know little about it, beyond the common tales and how distressing it all was for Luddy."

"You're not from Whitfurrows then, are you?" answered Frodo. "Are you visiting this part of the Shire?"

"That's right. My home is up around Scary, but I'm here at Luddy's invitation to spend a few weeks. He's talked so much about the big races they have here--but I must say I wasn't expecting anything so big as this!" Medovic gazed with wondering eyes at the hobbits and ponies that went past them on the way to the racing field. "I would never have believed it! And I've heard that they hold even larger ones at Michel Delving."

"Indeed they do. Do you take a great interest in racing ponies, Mr. Binglebottom?"

"Well, I've never had such a grand opportunity to experience them before this, only the local farms. I'm not used to casting my money after ponies as Luddy tells me he and his friends do, but I'm keen to learn--if only I don't get in over my head. Mother wouldn't approve if I came home again with my pockets empty."

"I'm certain your cousin will help you to pick the right ponies to place wagers on," said Frodo. "Have the two of you been making your choice among the possibilities in the pen?" He hadn't noticed either Binglebottom there, but the crowd had been thick.

"No," said Ludovic. "We've been- ah- wandering about the place, seeing the sights."

This struck Frodo as a strange statement to make; there was nothing of interest to be seen in the immediately vicinity of the Bridgefields. What could the two cousins have been up to? Medovic didn't look a hobbit to be climbing trees, but he was exactly the sort who would have a handkerchief like the one that dropped down from the oak.

While these thoughts were in his mind, Frodo had been staring at his new acquaintance. Medovic began to look puzzled. "I beg your pardon." Frodo apologized, and quickly thought of a ruse. "It's only that you have a smudge on your face."

"Smudge?" echoed Ludovic. "Where?" I don't see anything."

"It's just this side of his nose," said Sam, catching on. "A bit of mud, looks like."

"Oh, blast!" cried Medovic. "I must've been walking about with it half the morning too! I fancied people were looking at me oddly, particularly when we met those charming- Luddy, why didn't you tell me?"

"I tell you, I didn't see it! I still don't." Ludovic had moved around to the other side of his cousin to peer at the supposedly mud-smudged cheek.

"Have you a handkerchief?" asked Frodo. "I'll be happy to get it off for you."

"Here, take mine." Ludovic offered, and reached for his waistcoat pocket.

"No, no--if I'm going to dirty a hanky, I'd rather it be my own. Here you are, Mr. Baggins." And Medovic produced a clean white linen square with an elaborate gold-threaded monogram in the corner.

"I thought we had `em to rights," Sam said after he and Frodo had left the Binglebottoms. "He was just the sort for a fancy hanky--and the one he did have was even fancier than that one you've got there! But what did Mr. Ludovic mean by seeing the sights, if it wasn't spying? There's no 'sights' hereabouts but a flat field."

"Yes, that interested me too," Frodo agreed. "I wondered if they'd been trying to peek into the pony-pen, or else that Ludovic was hinting that they'd seen us in the dell. Then Medovic spoke of meeting some 'charming' something-or-other. He didn't finish the sentence, but its ending was easy to guess. I would say that the 'sights' those two were gazing upon were a pair of attractive pony-fancying ladies... or perhaps a pair of gents. At any rate, they weren't climbing trees." The crowd had now assembled along the upper end of the field to watch the first race, which would begin in a few minutes. "There might be a dozen MBs here today, Sam, but I think we'd best keep our attention on the two we know. Both Merry and Marly go to the Bucklebury tailor."

"I don't see Master Merry," said Sam. "But there's your cousin Marly."

Marleduc Brandybuck, a distant cousin of Frodo's and Merry's from the cadet branch of the family, was standing alone in the midst of the crowd and looking a little lost. Frodo and Sam headed toward him.

Marly's expression brightened when he saw them. "Hullo!" he called out. "I say, Frodo! You haven't seen Merry anywhere, have you? He disappeared just after you and Sam did."

"We were just looking for him ourselves. What's the trouble, Marly? You haven't changed your mind about a wager you've just placed, have you? You don't look like a hobbit who hopes to win."

"As a matter of fact, Frodo, I haven't placed any wagers yet. That's just it. I used to come here with my brother Eliduc and friends of ours when we were lads, you know, before I married Celie. I hadn't been back `til today since Eli died. It was kind of Merry to invite me along."

"But this all reminds you of your brother?" asked Frodo.

"Well, yes, it does, but Eliduc wouldn't mind me putting down some money in his memory. It's not that. It's different gambling when you're a respectably married hobbit with a wife and three little children."

Sam, with four little children, nodded sympathetically.

"Celie doesn't mind your gambling?" Frodo asked.

"Goodness, no! If she did, she would've said so before we went off. But when I saw Milo getting ready for the races, I couldn't help thinking how much trouble he got into before his luck changed for the better." Marly lowered his voice. "I'm not confident about that new pony of his, Frodo, and I'd say he isn't as sure of its winning either. If I wager on it simply out of family feeling, I might lose more than I want to. It could spoil the whole day. You'll say I'm being silly. Merry surely would."

"You don't have to place a large wager out of family feeling, Marly."

"What if there's another pony I favor?"

"Then put your money on it if you'd rather. Milo needn't ever know," Frodo assured him. "We won't carry tales."

"Which pony is it?" Sam asked.

"The one that belongs to Milo's friend, Mrs. Broombindle. Her daughter is certainly the lightest rider on the course today!"

"Then even if Milo does find out, he won't feel betrayed." But even as he encouraged Marly to bet as he liked, Frodo wondered what had cast Marly into such doubt in the first place. Had the two spoken while Milo was preparing his new pony in the pen, or had Marly uncovered some worrisome information elsewhere? What if Marly had gone up the oak tree to gain a better view of the area while searching for Merry, and instead seen something regarding Milo's pony that alarmed him? Could he have perhaps overheard Myrtle Broombindle and Mosco fixing up the race between themselves? If the young boy was so besotted with the older girl, he might agree to hold his pony back and let her win.

While Frodo was developing another ruse to find out if Marly had lost his handkerchief, Merry appeared from the cover of the trees along the river. He moved swiftly across the field in their general direction but he had an odd expression on his face and his thoughts seemed miles away; he didn't notice them until Marly hailed him.

At the sound of his name, Merry stopped in his tracks and turned to find his cousins and Sam. "Oh hullo, Marly. Why, Frodo--I didn't expect to see you again 'til the end of the day, after you dragged Sam off to goodness-knows-where. There's a lot of that sort of thing going on today."

"What sort of thing, Merry?"

"People dashing off into shrubbery and such-like. I thought we'd come to the Bridgefields to watch the races. At least, that what I came for. I couldn't say about anyone else."

Frodo didn't know what to make of these catty remarks. Merry had been as cheerful as his name during their ride up from Brandy Hall yesterday, and he'd been in a good mood when they'd parted less than an hour ago. But he wasn't happy now. Something had changed and Frodo didn't know what it could be, until he saw Pippin walking more slowly toward them from the same direction Merry had just come, accompanied by his North-Took cousin and betrothed, Diantha.

"Pip!" Frodo gave him a hug. "I didn't know you were back!" Pippin had been visiting his family in Tuckborough for the past month.

"I'm not," answered Pippin. "I mean, I haven't set foot in Buckland yet. I came up Stock-way and went straight to the river to wait for Di. You remember Di?"

"Yes, of course." Frodo gave her a polite bow. Diantha Took, a slight girl with red hair and freckles, was dressed in her usual boyish jacket and trousers and might easily be taken for a boy by anyone who didn't know her. Frodo noticed that the lower ends of her trousers were wet and her feet showed traces of mud. So did Pippin's.

"Miss Took," Sam added with a more wary form of courtesy; he believed the girl to be one of the worst mischief-makers in the Shire, and she and Pippin only encouraged each other.

"You came down the Brandywine all by yourself, Miss Took?" Marly asked her, surprised.

"All the way from Griddleford!" Di responded with a distinct note of pride. "I never rowed a boat before, but it was downstream so I only had to take care not to fall out into the water or run ashore before I wanted to. The hardest part was getting around that big island in the midst of the river and steering my way over from the Buckland side to this one before I went too far. Only think--I might've been swept all the way down and out of the Shire! But Pip wrote and told me to pull up on the shore before I got to the Bridge," she added. "He was standing right there and waving his arms, so I knew just where to stop."

"Griddleford," Frodo repeated the name of the village. "So you've been visiting your cousin." After Diantha's cousin Diamond had run away to marry Isigo Pumble last winter, Merry had hired Isigo as his land-agent for the northern part of Buckland and provided the newlyweds with a cottage at Griddleford, which was on the opposite bank of the Brandywine just north of Gridley Island.

"That's right! She's expecting now, for true this time--did you know? She says she'll have her baby just after midwinter. Her parents were furious when they heard," Di reported cheerfully. "They see now how she lied about having a baby before so she could get married, so they know they were tricked! But they can't do anything about it now. They aren't happy about me and Pippin either. Auntie Di was positively fuming when I told `em my news, and she and Diamond's mother still look like they want to be sick whenever they think about it. Poppa's delighted. He never thought he'd get me off his hands. I don't have the heart to tell him that it isn't a proper betrothal, only a favor to a friend. He wouldn't understand, and it'd spoil the fun of seeing the other Tooks so angry about it."

"Mother too," Pippin added in the same tone of gleeful relish. "You know how she feels about Di--the last girl in the world she wants to see me matched to! But Father says he's pleased and so do my sisters. It'd be a shame to explain things to them."

Diantha Took had agreed to betroth herself to Pippin to help him out; their alliance prevented the Tooks from trying to make other matches for him, as they'd tried do with her cousin Diamond. Since Di was as indifferent to boys as Pippin was to girls, their proposed marriage, if it ever came off, would be in name only.

"Now that you're here, are either of you going to place any wagers?" Merry asked impatiently. "There isn't much time before the first race."

"I've never gambled on how fast a pony could run before. I usually ride mine as fast as I can by myself." Diantha turned eagerly to Pippin. "What do I do? How do I pick out a good one?"

"Oh, that's easy. We always wager on our cousin Milo Burrows's pony."

"Is it the fastest?"

"Well, it usually wins. Come along--we'll put some money on Candlestick in this first race and maybe I can introduce you to Milo before it starts. And there's a friend of ours, a girl who rides in the races..."

The two went off together in search of a broker to take their wager. Marly made up his mind and followed, presumably to bet against family feeling. In spite of his remarks about what they were supposed to be here for, Merry showed no inclination to place a wager himself but, when he saw Milo and his sons taking Candlestick to the starting post, went over to them. Myrtle Broombindle and her mother had already joined the other racers at the starting post.

"Are we going to go watch the race?" Sam asked Frodo.

"You can if you want to," Frodo replied distractedly. After speaking to Merry and Pippin, a new idea had occurred to him. "I'd rather go and have a look at the view from that oak for myself, Sam, and see what can be seen."

They returned to the dell. While Sam stood keeping watch below, Frodo scrambled up into the oak tree and carefully made his way out onto the same bough Sam and the elusive MB had stood on earlier in the day. From this leafy perch, he could look directly down into the dell at the spot where he and Sam had lain in the grass, as well as over the fence and into the pony pens, which were now empty since most of the ponies, their owners, and the racing fanciers had gone out onto the field. But there was more. By turning in the opposite direction, he could also glimpse the Brandywine through the trees. Grasping the branches above him and stretching carefully up on tip-toe, he obtained a good view of a long, flat stretch of dried mud-flat on the western bank, where people who had come to the races by way of the river had brought their boats ashore.

"What d'you see up there?" Sam shouted.

"Just what I hoped to: The answer to this riddle, Sam!" Frodo made his way down the trunk of the tree and leapt to the ground. "It has nothing to do with the ponies at all. Come along--we have a handkerchief to return to its owner."

The first race was already in progress. By the time they reached the field, the ponies had left the starting post and were rapidly moving out of sight. The racing course ran straight for half a mile, then the ponies would turn and come back toward the cheering spectators gathered at this end. A few hobbits had gone farther down the field or had climbed up into the trees for a better view of the full race, but most agreed that the beginning and end were the most exciting parts, and preferred to enjoy the proceedings seated in one comfortable spot in the shade with a picnic basket at hand. Frodo left Sam by the pony-pen and picked his way through the crowd, carefully treading between numerous blankets spread on the grass and occasionally murmuring apologies for blocking someone's view. Along the way, he nearly tripped over one of the Binglebottoms, who were not seated with Ludovic's friends, but were sharing their lunch with two rather pretty, giggling young ladies in beribboned bonnets.

Merry was seated on such a blanket with the sulky Moro and Marly; Pippin and Diantha were standing nearby among the more active spectators, shouting for Candlestick to go faster. While everyone else's eyes were on the racing field, Merry's were on the two young Tooks. He wasn't interested in the outcome of the race. Once Frodo reached his cousin and asked if they could have a private word, Merry didn't protest but came with him.

"What is it you want, Frodo?" Merry asked once they were at the spot where Sam stood waiting for Frodo's return.

Frodo took out the monogrammed handkerchief and offered it to his cousin. "I think you dropped this."

Merry checked his waistcoat pocket. "Yes, it's mine. Where did you find it?"

"It must have fallen out of your pocket while you were up in that oak tree, spying on Pippin and Di."

Merry didn't deny this, but put the handkerchief into his pocket. "I didn't mean to disturb you and Sam," he apologized instead. "I tried not to."

"You knew about the dell?" asked Frodo.

"From last year," his cousin answered, and smiled with something like his normal sense of humor. "Between the races, Pip and I went there with the same idea you had today."

"How did you know that Pippin was meeting Di?"

"He wrote me last week to say he was going to join us for the Bridgefield races, and that Diantha was coming too. He gave me all his travel plans, just as he told them to you. I saw him when he arrived, just after you two went off, but he didn't see me. He headed straight into the trees and I guessed where he was going. I meant to follow him at first, then I realized he would've seen me on the path to the river's edge and would've wanted me to come with him to greet her."

"But that wasn't what you were after," said Frodo. "You wanted to see how he and Di behaved when they were alone together."

Merry nodded.

"Did you see anything between them to worry you?"

"No," Merry admitted. "Pip sat there on the bank until she came rowing up, then he started waving his arms and jumping up and down, and he waded out to help her bring her boat ashore. They didn't hug or kiss or anything of that sort, but both began talking and laughing at once. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but I was wild to find out, so I climbed down as quickly as I could--I suppose that's when I lost this." He patted the pocket that contained the handkerchief. "I went 'round behind the pony-pen to go and meet them at the riverside. They were happy to see me. At least, they were still laughing when they saw me. They laugh a lot." His expression grew somber as he recalled how he and Pippin had once laughed together all the time too.

"There, you see how it is," said Frodo. "Both of them declare there's nothing in this betrothal but a desire to keep Pippin's parents from matching him up with other girls. You've no reason to disbelieve them, Merry. They aren't liars--I would say, rather the opposite. They're too indiscreet with their secrets and are painfully obvious when they have something to conceal. I'm surprised one or the other hasn't blurted the truth of the matter out to their families by now. Pippin truly doesn't care for her in that way, and she only regards him as a friend. You've only to listen to the way the two of them talk about this betrothal of theirs. It's a glorious prank to them, no more."

"I know," said Merry. "But all the same..."

"You must stop being so suspicious," Frodo told him. "Both Sam and I can tell you what that sort of jealousy does to a friendship." He looked to Sam, who nodded reluctantly in agreement; he had once been as jealous and suspicious of Frodo's relationship with Merry. "No good can come of it. It eats away at you like a poison, making you sick and miserable, and it won't help you with Pip if you go on behaving like this. It'll only make him unhappy too if he feels he has to choose between the two of you. You know that he won't find it appealing to be around someone who's always making him feel bad, when all he wants is fun." Frodo regarded his cousin with concern. "What's happened, Merry? You used to have fun."

"Used to," Merry echoed glumly, "but that was before I became Master and had to be respectable all the time. It wears on a fellow, Frodo! I feel as if I have the burden of Buckland weighing me down. Hundreds of hobbits, all depending on me."

"You're not in Buckland today, my dear," Frodo said sympathetically, and patted Merry's arm. "All the Bucklanders can manage for a few hours without you. So why don't you go and have a little fun with Pip while you can? And if you're wise, you'll make a friend of Di, instead of a rival."

Although he didn't entirely like this last part of Frodo's advice, Merry couldn't argue with it. He made his way over to the two young Tooks. He spoke to them; Frodo and Sam were too far away to hear what he said, but it made Pippin and Diantha laugh. Then all three turned their attention to the ponies, which were returning from the far end of the field. A great shout rose from the crowd.

"Don't you want to go see who won?" asked Sam. He was craning to peer over the heads of the intervening hobbits to spot the winning pony; Frodo, on the other hand, was wandering away.

"No," said Frodo. "If it's Candlestick, Milo will tell me all about it later. If it isn't... Well, maybe Marly will have some good news. I'd much rather return to what we were doing before this business with MB's handkerchief interrupted us--if you'd care to accompany me, Sam? With the races started, I'm certain that no one will be there to interrupt us again, nor will anyone miss us for some time."

Frodo turned and headed toward the dell. When he glanced back over his shoulder, Sam hastened to catch up with him.