Dear Diary,
Just like Gloin I too was convinced that we'd come to
the wrong house this evening. So far the strange little
hobbit has shown the burgling knowledge of a drunk goblin.
To think that we're going to rely on him to help us get
our treasure back from Smaug.
But wait, I'm starting to get ahead of myself here. I
should tackle things in the order that they happened and
then you won't get confused. Right, let me start at the
very beginning of the evening. Gandalf, some of my fellow
dwarfs and I had arrived at the house of one Bilbo Baggins,
Esquire, who, I had been reliably informed by Gandalf,
was seeking employment as a burglar. Indeed, as we arrived
at his carefully painted green door I noticed that it
bore the special symbol of an expert treasure hunter looking
for a job. I must admit, though, that I started having
doubts about the hobbit from this moment on. His garden
was far too well looked after, for one thing. The only
thing expert treasure hunters tend to dig up are chests
of gold. This, so-called 'burglar', appeared more at home
digging up weeds. And when we got into the house, as well,
it was evident that the hobbit was far more at home with
a duster than a sword. But, once again, I'm getting ahead
of myself.
So, we had arrived at Bilbo Baggins' hobbit-hole. Gandalf
gave the green door a hefty knock with his staff and we
stood and waited. And waited. And waited. Being the most
important person there, apart from the illustrious Gandalf
of course, I was standing nearest the door waiting to
go in first. The other dwarfs started impatiently pushing
against me so they could peer through the small window
in the door to see what exactly was keeping our host.
I was just about to ask the others to keep a more suitable
distance away when the door suddenly shot open and I felt
myself catapulted forward and head first into the hobbit's
hallway. I wasn't alone as Bifur, Bofur and Bombor all
landed heavily on top of me. Bombor, in particularly,
landed with some force.
As you can probably imagine, I was not at all pleased
at being squashed on a complete stranger's carpet. My
haughtiness towards the hobbit was quite understandable,
I feel. However, the hobbit kept on squeaking like a rodent,
saying how sorry he was over and over again. So persistent
were his apologies that I eventually told him that it
was all right and that no harm had been done.
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