Frodo poked his head out of the bedroom door to find a group standing in the hallway. The boys were dressed, anxious-looking, and out of breath. Milo, Lad, and Angelica were still in their nightshifts and dressing gowns, bleary-eyed and hair rumpled, as obviously jolted from their beds moments ago as he'd been himself.
"What is it?" he asked them. "What's happened?"
"Fleetfoot's gone!" said Milo. "He's been taken from his stall." Moro tugged on his father's sleeve, and Milo went out to see for himself. With a word to Angelica, Lad went after them.
Frodo glanced back into the room behind him to find that Sam was also sleepily getting out of bed. Frodo repeated the news to his friend and in silent agreement, they both pulled on their robes and followed the others.
"Do you mind if Sam and I have a look around too?" Frodo requested once they had caught up with Lad on the slope down to the stables.
"No, not at all!" said Lad. "What's the good of having famous investigators as guests if they can't make themselves useful when our prize racing pony is stolen?"
"Are you sure he's been stolen?" Frodo asked. "Is it possible that Fleetfoot could've gotten out by himself and is simply wandering about loose?"
"I doubt it, unless the boys have been careless enough to leave his stall door unlatched and the stable door ajar so that Fleet could push it open. "Moro! Mos! Sandy!" Lad shouted after the three boys, who had run on ahead with Milo. "You didn't leave any doors open, did you?"
"No, Uncle Lad!" Mosco shouted back and went into the stable.
"You always bar the stable doors at night?" Frodo asked Mosco once he too was inside.
"That's right, Uncle Frodo," Mosco confirmed. "We tend the ponies and, before we go to up into the loft, we bar the doors at both ends of the stable and the one to the paddock."
"And all the ponies were put away properly?" Frodo looked into each of the stalls; there were twelve in all, and most were occupied--by Candlestick, by the three ponies he, Sam, and Milo had ridden from Hobbiton, and by others ponies owned by Lad. All were a little skittish with all the hobbits shouting and running about. The roomy stall nearest the outer door was conspicuously unoccupied. "There's no chance Fleetfoot could've gone before you shut things up for the night? Were the ponies left unattended at any time yesterday evening?" Moro and Mosco had certainly left the stables for about two hours to have dinner. He turned to the stable-boy. "Were you here all the time?"
"Oh, no, Mr. Baggins," answered Sandy. "I go home to supper. Mum and Dad are just down the lane."
"Sandy's father is our ostler," Lad told Frodo. "They always go home for their meals, and Sandy comes back at night. What time did you come back last night, Sandy?"
"About dusk, Mr. Lad. 'Twas afore Mosco and Moro came in, but not by more'n ten minutes or so. Fleetfoot was here then--I'd swear to it."
"Fleet was in his stall when we came in after dinner," Mosco confirmed. "I had a look in at him before I went to bed."
"And you boys heard nothing?"
Mosco ducked his head and Sandy bit his lips, but Moro answered, "No, Uncle Frodo. Nothing all night."
"Really?" said Frodo. "That's very curious." He lifted the latch and looked inside the empty stall. It had been mucked out by the boys before dinner last night; he remembered Angelica sending Mosco and Moro off to have baths before letting them set foot in her dining-room. There was fresh straw on the floor, somewhat trodden down but not crushed, and no new droppings. If someone had taken Fleetfoot in the night, they'd come for him early in the evening.
Frodo then examined the stable doors. The stable was a long, low thatched-roof tumulus with a door at each end--one opening onto the foot of the slope below Lad's and Angelica's house, and the other opening onto a short, hedge-lined lane that led onto the road north from Michel Delving. At the middle of the stable was a third double-wide door that opened directly into the paddock. There was no sign of force on any of the three, but Frodo knew there were ways to lift a bar by sliding something through the gaps. He'd done so himself on one or two occasions.
"They must've come in and out that way," Sam said as Frodo examined the door that led out to the road. "It's closest to Fleetfoot's stall, and they'd only have to take 'm the long way 'round to get back to the road if they went out any other way."
Frodo agreed. He opened this door and looked at the ground outside, then walked to the end of the lane. Unfortunately, there had been no recent rain, and there was no mud to provide helpful hoofprints or hobbit footprints to show which way Fleetfoot had gone. "Where does the road go?" he asked. He'd never been further along it than this.
"There are some other farms up that way--Tweedley's, Burdock's, Lowgate Farm," Lad answered. "If you ride on it far enough, it'll take you to Little Delving and Nobottle."
"Who would want to keep Fleetfoot out of the races tomorrow?" Frodo asked him.
"Who would be most likely to take him?" Lad considered the question. "Folk who have ponies running against him, I suppose. Or someone who means to wager a great deal on another pony and wants to be sure of their win."
"Do any of those other ponies' owners have their farms or stables nearby--within a few hours' ride?" At this time of year, the nights were at their shortest. It was still light until 10 in the evening, and dawn was around 3 am. Whoever had taken the pony would have to have hidden him somewhere by daybreak; Fleetfoot was well known around Michel Delving and would surely be recognized if he were seen on the road or in someone else's pasture.
"That might be dozens of people!" Milo said in despair. "There are countless farms and stables around us. They might've gotten as far as Hobbiton or Nobottle, or goodness-knows-where by now!" A horrible thought occurred to him. "What'll happen if we don't find Fleet by tomorrow? The first race is at midday, and he's meant to run in it."
Mosco was also beginning to look deeply distressed as the severity of the situation was borne upon him. "I'm so sorry, Father!" he cried out. "It's my fault. I was meant to look after Fleet."
Milo patted his son's shoulder. "It's all right, my dear," he said, pulling himself together. "It's not your doing. Don't worry--we'll find him."
"We must search," Frodo agreed. This was the most simple and obvious course but, under the circumstances, it was the only thing he could think to do. "If there's no indication of which direction he's gone, then we'll have to look everywhere."
"He has to be somewhere," said Lad.
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