“I meant him,” said Frodo.
One star-bright eye looked up at him.
“Shtrider ish my name, boy.” Sam’s hands stopped moving.
“Strider?” he said. “Strider the Ranger?”
“The very shame.”
“Hang on, hang on,” said Frodo. “Strider’s a great big chap, neck like a bull, got chest muscles like a sack of footballs. I mean, he’s Middle-earth’s greatest warrior, a legend in his own lifetime. I remember my grandad telling me he saw him… my grandad telling me he… my grandad…”
He faltered under the gimlet gaze.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh. Of course. Sorry.”
“Yesh,” said Strider, and sighed. “Thatsh right, boy. I’m a lifetime in my own legend.”
“Gosh,” said Frodo. “How old are you, exactly?”
“Eighty-sheven.”
“But you were the greatest!” said Sam. “Bards still sing songs about you.”
Strider shrugged, and gave a little yelp of pain.
“I never get any royaltiesh,” he said. He looked moodily at the snow. “That’sh the shaga of my life. Eighty yearsh in the bushiness and what have I got to show for it? Backache, pilesh, bad digeshtion and a hundred different recipesh for lebbash. Lebbash! I hate lebbash!”
Sam’s forehead wrinkled. “Lebbash?”
“Lembas,” explained Frodo.
“Yeah, lebbash,” said Strider, miserably. “It’sh my teeths, you shee. No-one takes you sheriously when you’ve got no teeths, they shay ‘Shit down by the fire, grandad, and have shome leb—’” Strider looked sharply at Frodo. “That’sh a nashty cough you have there, boy.”
