Morning came, grey and soft, with a light rain falling on The Hill. Bungo rose early, as he always did, and crept past the sleeping dwarves to his kitchen. There he made himself a pot of tea and sat down to think.
The dwarves had eaten everything in his pantry, so there was no breakfast to be had—a fact that annoyed him almost as much as the quest itself. He sipped his tea and tried to sort out his thoughts.
On the one hand, he had no desire to go on an adventure. Adventures were uncomfortable things, full of danger and discomfort and very few proper meals. He liked his warm bed, his good food, his garden, his books, his pipe. He liked knowing what each day would bring, and he liked the peace and quiet of his life in Oakenshaw.
On the other hand... on the other hand, there was something tugging at him. Something that made him think of his mother, and the stories she used to tell. Something that whispered of the wide world beyond the valley, of mountains and forests and rivers he had only ever seen in pictures. Something that wondered what it would be like to see a dragon—from a very safe distance, of course.
And then there was the look in Thorin's eyes. That look of desperate hope, of a king who had lost everything and would do anything to get it back. Bungo could not forget that look.
He was still sitting there, his tea cold and forgotten, when Gandalf came into the kitchen. The wizard filled the doorway with his height, but he sat down on a low stool and made himself small, so that he could look Bungo in the eye.
"Well?" he said. "What have you decided?"
"I don't know," said Bungo truthfully. "I don't know what to do. I'm not a hero, Gandalf. I'm not a warrior or a thief or anything useful. I'm just a hobbit who likes his garden."
Gandalf smiled. "That is precisely why you are the right hobbit for this task. A hero would charge in with swords drawn and songs on his lips, and he would be dead before he reached the Mountain. A thief would be too clever by half, and the dragon would smell him out. But a hobbit—a hobbit who just wants to go home—he will be careful. He will think before he acts. He will not take unnecessary risks. He is exactly what this quest needs."
Bungo considered this. "But what about the dwarves? They don't seem to think much of me. They probably wanted a great warrior, not a gardener."
"The dwarves," said Gandalf, "do not always know what is good for them. That is why they have me. I chose you, Bungo Boffin, and I did not choose lightly. Trust me in this."
There was a long silence. Then Bungo sighed.
"Very well," he said. "I'll go."
Gandalf's smile broadened. "I thought you might. Now then, we have much to do. The dwarves will be waking soon, and we must make plans. But first—breakfast. I believe there is a baker in the village who owes me a favour. Wait here."
He rose and strode out, and Bungo sat alone in his kitchen, wondering what he had just agreed to. In less than an hour, the dwarves were awake and tucking into a breakfast of fresh bread, butter, honey, eggs, bacon, and sausage, all produced by Gandalf from his mysterious errand. Bungo ate with them, and found that his appetite had not deserted him despite his momentous decision.
When they had finished, Thorin called the company to order. "Master Boffin has agreed to join us," he announced, and the dwarves cheered and clapped Bungo on the back until he felt quite battered. "We leave at once. The road is long, and the days are growing shorter. We must make haste."
"Leave at once?" cried Bungo. "But I haven't packed! I haven't said goodbye to my garden! I haven't—"
"There is no time," said Thorin firmly. "Take only what you can carry. We will buy what we need on the road."
So Bungo hurried through his hole, gathering a few belongings: his warmest waistcoat, a spare pair of breeches, his pocket-handkerchief (he was very fond of his pocket-handkerchief and never went anywhere without it), a small pouch of pipe-weed, and his favourite pipe. He looked longingly at his books, his armchair, his bed, and then he turned away and went back to the dwarves.
They were waiting for him by the green door. The rain had stopped, and the sun was breaking through the clouds, lighting up the wet grass and the nodding daffodils. Bungo took a last look at his home, at the garden he had tended for so many years, at the hill he had lived in all his life.
"Goodbye," he whispered. "I'll be back before you know it."
Then he turned and followed the dwarves down the path, away from Oakenshaw, away from everything he knew, towards the east and the Lonely Mountain and the dragon Smaug.
Gandalf walked beside him, humming a tune under his breath. It was an old tune, a walking tune, and it went like this:
The road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.
Bungo listened, and somehow the tune made him feel both sad and hopeful at the same time. He did not know what lay ahead, or whether he would ever see his comfortable hole again. But for the first time in his life, he was going to find out.