The hills west of the Anduin were tall and white. On its east side there were low shrubs and thin grass and no trees and rocks and stones and dirt near the road which led north and south alongside Mordor. Here they set camp with a small fire and pot simmering skinned conies for a poor stew. The Hobbit and the creature with him sat on a flat stone in the small shade of a drooping, dry shrub. The heat caused the Hobbit to grip at his sweated shirt and the golden burden that lay just under the thinned nap. The other Hobbit, larger in size for Little Folk, would return in an hour, then they would press on to the south to Doom.
“It’s hot,” said the Hobbit.
“Will the fats one comesss back soon, Master?” the creature asked.
“Yes, he scouts ahead. South.”
“We’s close.”
The creature’s gaze followed the Hobbit’s hand and watched him fondle the front of his shirt. The Hobbit caught the creature’s eye and its stare darted back to the view to the west, as though not a thing was out of place.
“The hillsss look like white oliphaunts, precious. Gollum! Gollum!” the creature choked.
“I have never seen one,” the Hobbit said.
