It was a week later, and Bungo had almost forgotten about the wizard's visit. Almost, but not quite. The strange stirring in his heart had not gone away, though he had tried to drown it in good food and plenty of pipe-weed. He had weeded his dahlias twice, polished his brass door-knob until it shone like gold, and rearranged his pantry three times. But still, when he sat by the fire in the evenings, his thoughts would wander eastwards, towards the mountains he had never seen and the adventures he did not want.
On this particular evening, he was just sitting down to his supper—a splendid repast of roast mutton, boiled potatoes, buttered carrots, and a deep-dish apple pie with cream—when there came a knock at his round green door.
Bungo jumped. He knew, somehow, who it would be. He thought about pretending not to be home. He thought about hiding in the cellar until whoever it was went away. He thought about a great many things, but in the end he got up, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and went to the door.
It was not Gandalf who stood there. It was a dwarf.
This dwarf was a sight to behold. He was short and stocky, with a long red beard that was braided and tucked into his belt. He wore a hood of dark blue and a cloak of matching wool, and at his side hung a short sword in a worn leather scabbard. His boots were caked with mud from the road, and his face was weathered and lined from years of travelling. He looked Bungo up and down with sharp, bright eyes.
"Bungo Boffin?" he said, in a voice like gravel being crushed under a cartwheel.
"The same," said Bungo, trying to keep his voice steady. "And who might you be?"
"Dwalin, son of Fundin, at your service," said the dwarf, and he gave a little bow that was more like a nod.
"At your service and your family's," said Bungo automatically, as hobbit manners demanded. He had no idea what else to say. "Would you... would you like some supper? I was just sitting down to roast mutton."
"Don't mind if I do," said Dwalin, and he strode past Bungo into the tunnel without waiting for a second invitation.
Bungo followed, his mind in a whirl. What was a dwarf doing at his door? And why was he here? But there was nothing for it but to be a good host, so he led Dwalin to his dining room and set another place at the table.
Dwalin ate as if he had not seen food in a week. He demolished the roast mutton in great chunks, sopped up the gravy with half a loaf of bread, and finished off the apple pie in four enormous bites. Bungo watched him with a mixture of horror and admiration, and was just about to ask him what his business was when another knock came at the door.
This time it was another dwarf, with a blue beard and a silver hood, who introduced himself as Balin, also son of Fundin, and also at Bungo's service. He joined his brother at the table, and between them they finished off the cold chicken, the pickled eggs, the cheese board, and most of Bungo's store of seed-cake.
Before Bungo could catch his breath, there came another knock. And another. And another. By the time the evening was over, Bungo's dining room was full of dwarves—thirteen of them, to be precise, each with a beard of a different colour and a hood of a different shade, and each one hungrier than the last. They had eaten his mutton, his chicken, his pies, his cakes, his bread, his cheese, his pickles, his preserves, and had washed it all down with two kegs of his best ale. Bungo sat in a corner, watching his pantry being emptied before his eyes, and wondered what he had done to deserve this.
The last to arrive was a dwarf with a white beard and a golden hood, who introduced himself as Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain. He spoke with great dignity, and the other dwarves fell silent when he entered the room. He bowed to Bungo with more ceremony than the others, and said, "Thorin Oakenshield, at your service and your family's. I thank you for your hospitality, Master Boffin, and I hope we have not put you out too much."
"Not at all, not at all," said Bungo weakly, though his pantry was bare and his ale was gone. "It is an honour to have you. But I must confess, I do not understand why you are all here."
As if in answer, there came a last knock at the door—a firm, commanding knock that made the dwarves all look at each other. Bungo went to open it, and there stood Gandalf, leaning on his staff and smiling his craggy smile.
"Good evening, Bungo," he said. "I see the company has arrived. May I come in? It is a bit chilly out here, and I would not say no to a cup of tea."
Bungo stood aside, and Gandalf strode into the dining room. The dwarves all rose to their feet, and Thorin greeted him with a bow.
"Gandalf," said Thorin. "You are punctual, as always."
"I try to be," said Gandalf. "Now then, Master Boffin, if you would be so kind as to fetch some more ale—I believe there is a keg in your cellar that you have forgotten about—we can get down to business."
Bungo fetched the ale (he had indeed forgotten about it, and was not pleased to have it remembered), and when everyone was settled with full mugs, Thorin stood up and cleared his throat.
"Master Boffin," he said, "you may be wondering why we have come to your comfortable home and eaten your excellent food. The reason is simple: we have need of a hobbit. And not just any hobbit, but a hobbit with Took blood in his veins, who can be quiet when necessary, quick when needed, and lucky when it counts. Gandalf here assures us that you are that hobbit."
Bungo's heart sank. "I'm very flattered," he said, "but I don't see what use I could be to dwarves. I don't know anything about mining or metals or fighting or any of that. I'm just a gardener."
"A gardener!" cried one of the dwarves—Bifur, or Bofur, or Bombur, Bungo could not tell which. "That's perfect! We'll need someone who knows about plants and growing things, where we're going."
"And where is that, exactly?" asked Bungo, though he was not sure he wanted to know.
Thorin's face grew grim. "We are going east," he said. "East, to the Lonely Mountain, which was once my home and the home of my people. We are going to reclaim what was stolen from us—the treasure of my grandfather, Thrór, King under the Mountain. We are going to face the dragon Smaug."
The name fell into the room like a stone into still water. The dwarves all bowed their heads, and even Gandalf looked serious. Bungo felt the blood drain from his face.
"A dragon?" he whispered. "You want me to go and see a dragon? No, thank you! I'm very sorry for your troubles, and I hope you get your treasure back, but I'm not going anywhere near a dragon. Dragons burn things, you know. They eat hobbits. I read about it in a book."
"Ah, but you see," said Gandalf, "that's where you're wrong. Dragons do not eat hobbits, as a rule. They find them too small and too tough. No, a dragon would not bother with a hobbit. A hobbit, on the other hand, might be very useful for bothering a dragon. You are small and quiet, and dragons have very good noses but very poor eyesight when it comes to things that don't move. You could sneak in while the dragon is sleeping and—"
"Sneak in?" cried Bungo. "While it's sleeping? What if it wakes up? What if it has nightmares? What if it rolls over in its sleep and squashes me flat? No, no, no! This is madness! I am a Boffin of Oakenshaw, and Boffins do not sneak into dragon's lairs!"
The dwarves began to mutter among themselves. Thorin looked disappointed, and Gandalf sighed.
"Very well," said the wizard. "If you will not come willingly, then we must find another way. But before you decide, perhaps you would like to hear the full story. It is a long tale, and it deserves to be told properly. Thorin, if you would?"
Thorin nodded, and began to speak. He told of the great kingdom under the Mountain, where his people had lived in wealth and peace for many generations. He told of the golden halls, the forges that never went cold, the treasures piled high in the deep places of the earth. He told of his grandfather, Thrór, and his father, Thráin, and the prosperity that had made the name of Durin's folk known throughout the north.
Then his voice grew dark. He told of the coming of the dragon Smaug, the greatest of the great fire-drakes of the north. He told how Smaug had descended on the Mountain in a storm of fire, how he had burned the town of Dale at the Mountain's feet, how he had driven the dwarves out of their halls and claimed their treasure for his own. He told of the long years of exile, of wandering and poverty, of the scattering of his people across the lands of Middle-earth.
And finally, he told of the quest. Of how Gandalf had come to him with a plan, a desperate hope. Of how a small company of dwarves might enter the Mountain unseen, if they had the right help. Of how a hobbit, of all creatures, might be the key to their success.
When he finished, there was silence in the room. Bungo sat very still, his mind full of images of fire and gold and great wings beating in the dark.
"What do you say, Master Boffin?" asked Thorin quietly. "Will you help us?"
Bungo looked around the room. He saw the faces of the dwarves, weary and hopeful and desperate. He saw Gandalf, watching him with those strange, piercing eyes. He thought of his comfortable hole, his garden, his dahlias, his quiet life. And then, for no reason he could explain, he thought of his mother, Mimosa Took, and the stories she used to tell.
"I..." he began. "I need to think about it. This is a lot to take in. Can I have the night to consider?"
The dwarves looked at each other. Thorin nodded slowly. "Very well. We will stay here tonight, if you will have us, and in the morning you can give us your answer."
Bungo agreed, though he did not know where he would put them all. In the end, they slept in the parlour, the dining room, the kitchen, and the hall, rolled up in their cloaks and snoring like a nest of badgers. Bungo himself lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering what on earth he was going to do.