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.
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