Frodo, Merry, and Pippin made good their escape and wandered hither and yon over Hobbiton, through pastures and hayfields, pausing occasionally at a well for a drink of water. The sun blazed down from a cruel blue sky, with scarcely a wisp of cloud, and the brown and gold grasshoppers whirred and hummed around them as they walked. Pippin felt miserably hot and uncomfortable in his heavy coat and waistcoat. Before too long his face was beet-red and perspiring, and he had forgotten his handkerchief, so the sweat dripped into his eyes, making them water and sting. His idea of a good time was a half-pint in the cool dimness of The Green Dragon, not a torturous tramp in the midday sun. He almost wished he had been the one to distract Lobelia: A tongue-lashing now seemed highly preferable to slowly baking to death in his jacket, like some sort of Took-shaped potato.
Now as they walked through an orchard, Frodo and Merry were deep in discussion about bakers and cooks and musicians, making plans for Frodo's birthday party that fall. Pippin loved a party, and he wouldn't have missed Frodo's party for the world, but he would rather attend a party than plan it and the little, niggling details bored him silly. Merry had been acting so dreadfully grown-up and serious lately. How he wished they would stop talking to each other for a while and pay attention to him!
He was horribly thirsty and his tongue tasted like a piece of flannel. He wished desperately for a cool drink, but the only water in sight was a cow pond at the edge of the orchard. "I say, you two!" He finally gasped. "Can't we have a rest?"
Merry and Frodo walked on, their heads close together. Frodo was bent a little forward as he walked, hands clasped behind his back, and Merry had unconsciously assumed the same posture. "I think we should get the beer from the Prancing Pony in Bree," Merry was saying. "My people get out there occasionally, and they say it's very good."
"How many barrels then, do you think?" Frodo replied.
Pippin curled his lip. He had worn his new winter suit, hoping someone would comment on it so he could show it off, but he might as well have been wearing a sack, for all they noticed. He was thirsty, and tired, and hot, and he was getting hungry, and no one seemed to care. The ground was scattered with fallen apples, most of them the home of little green worms and slowly turning to mush. Pippin scooped one up and hurled it at Merry's head. It flew through the air in a beautiful arc and connected with a satisfying splat.
"Hi!" Merry cried, clutching his head. He whirled around. Pippin had already picked up another apple for a second try, but now he dropped it and put his hands behind his back. Merry's face flushed and his eyes narrowed. "Why, you little devil! What was that for?"
Pippin was already sorry; he hadn't meant to throw the apple that hard, and it was a lot softer than he had thought. "What?" He said innocently. "Oh, terribly dangerous places, these orchards, aren't they? The trees will attack you as soon as look at you."
"Oho, I'll show you dangerous, my lad," Merry said, grinning evilly. "Cousin, do you know that our little Pip is still ticklish?"
"Fascinating," Frodo said. "I'd be very interested to see just how ticklish."
"Let me show you," Merry said.
Pippin yelled and took off, Merry and Frodo in pursuit. The grass was high and in some places nearly up to a Hobbit's waist. They had to leap like deer to make their way. Pippin, being the shortest, could have easily crouched down and vanished from sight, but he was having too much fun being chased. The apples flew thick and fast, and they slipped and slid in the ancient windfalls. Merry finally caught Pippin in a flying tackle and they fell to the ground. "Mercy!" Pippin cried, but Merry hadn't started to tickle him; he was sitting up and clutching his hand.
"Oh, curse it all," Merry said.
"What's wrong?" Frodo asked.
Merry held up his hand. A thin line of blood had welled up along the palm and was beginning to run down the wrist. "I've fallen on a stick and cut myself."
Frodo took out his handkerchief and started binding the wound. "I think we'd better get back and tend to it. It's high time for dinner, anyway."
"Not so tight, Frodo, you'll cut off my circulation!" Merry winced. "I can't lift a fork if my hand falls off."
"We can't have you dripping all over Bag End; what would Lobelia say? Bloodstains lower the property value." Blood began to seep through the white cloth. "That should do for now. Think you'll live?"
"It's a long way from my heart," Merry said. "I suppose I'll make it."
Pippin had turned an alarming shade of white as he stared at Merry's hand. Some rude person grabbed the edge of the world and tipped it, causing him to sway. The edges of his vision filled with cheery twinkles, like stardust, and he fell forward into Frodo's arms. The unexpected weight knocked him to the ground and he landed on his rump, Pippin sprawled across his lap.
"Oh, do get up, Pip," Frodo said, pushing him off. "That's not the least bit funny."
"Pippin?" Merry shook him and patted his cheeks. Pippin's face was the color of paste, and they could see the whites of his eyes beneath his half-closed lids. "Pippin! Wake up, lad!"
Frodo worriedly put a hand on Pippin's clammy forehead. "Oh, dear," Frodo said. "Now Pippin's fainted."
