The Hobbit Page #3

This sword, Thorin, the runes name

Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver.

- And mine?

- Glamdring, the Foe-hammer.

- Keep them well.

- I will keep this in honour.

- Now show me your map.

- I have it here.

Something's strange. Let's see.

Yes, indeed!

There are moon-letters here! See?

What are moon-letters?

Runes that can only be seen

when the moon shines behind them.

They give directions

for finding the secret door.

"Stand by the grey stone

when the thrush knocks,

... and the last light

of the setting sun...

... will shine upon the keyhole."

This way!

Shelter!

A dry cave!

Now, get some sleep, men.

We found a perfect place to camp.

Dwarves have a strange

notion of perfection.

And where's Gandalf?

Gone again?

I wish I was a wizard!

Hello! What's this?

Look out!

The ponies! The ponies!

Wake up! We've been robbed!

The goblins are upon us!

Save the ponies from the goblins!

Trapped!

The goblins have us!

Who are these miserable persons?

Thorin, at your service.

We did not mean to trespass.

We were merely seeking

shelter from the storm.

He is a liar, oh,

truly tremendous one.

Ask him to explain his weapon!

This sword is named Orcrist,

the Goblin-cleaver!

Murderers!

Elf-friends!

Stop!

I know that sword!

It is called:
Glamdring,

the Foe-hammer!

Gandalf! Good old Gandalf!

Follow me! Quickly!

Through here! Follow me!

Bilbo!

He is gone!

Bilbo, where are you?

My precious.

It is my precious.

Hello, my precious.

Bless us and splash us.

Food for my precious.

Eggs and bacon. ---.

--- and sweet butter.

What is that noise, my precious?

My precious does not know.

Bless my soul!

Hello! What's this?

A souvenir to show the neighbours

back home. If I ever get home.

Oh, who are you?

Bless us, my precious.

A tasty morsel it would make us.

What is it, my precious?

I am Mr. Bilbo Baggins.

I've lost my dwarves,

my wizard and my way.

Mind you, I'm armed

with an elvish blade!

That's better.

Perhaps you know the way out?

Perhaps ye sits here...

... and chats with it

a bitsy, my preciousss.

It... likes ... riddles?

Do I like riddles?

Well, yes, after a fashion.

It must have

a competition with us.

If precious asks

and it doesn't answer...

... we eat it, my precious.

Oh, I say!

But if it asks us...

... and we doesn't answer...

... then we...

... shows it...

...the way out!

- It seems I have no choice.

- My precious...

... we makes the first riddle.

Voiceless it cries,

Wingless flutters,

Toothless bites,

Mouthless mutters.

Can it...

... guess...

... the answer?

Half a moment.

Is it nice, my precious?

Is it juicy?

Gluey? Tacky?

Is it scrumptious?

If you please!

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