Derufin savored the last bite of his spice cake, then washed the last of the thick, sticky sweet frosting down with a large gulp of cider. He set his fork down with a satisfied
clink and pushed the vacant plate away. To his left sat a table of the local folk . . . no, not sat, but stood about the table cheering on one of their mates. Derufin stood and looked over at the source of merriment and groans.
They’d cleared half the table of mugs and plates and had laid a modest piece of
thin slate on it; one edge of the slate on the very edge of the tabletop. The rectangular board had lines painted across it and spaces along the edge for scoring. One of the Hobbits, the broadest and beefiest at the table stood at one end of the slate, concentrating hard on the ha’penny cushioned against his calloused palm. There was a hushed cheering as he pushed the penny and it slid across the lines. ‘Stop! Stop!’ he muttered through clenched teeth, then groaned audibly as the ha’penny skidded all the way to the end of the slate. ‘Have a drink!’ his friend standing next to him said sympathetically. ‘It’ll go better next time.’ Another of the men at the table stepped up, trying his luck at the challenge.
‘What are we playing for?’ Derufin asked, edging up to the table as looked on. One of the Hobbits looked up at him, his brow raised. ‘Ever played afore?’ he asked the man casually. ‘Well, no,’ admitted Derufin, watching as the challenger fared a little better than his friend. ‘But it doesn’t seem too hard, now does it?’
The Hobbits suppressed a chuckle and motioned for Derufin to try his hand at it. ‘Loser stands the table to drinks. And no . . . not too hard . . .’ He grinned at his companions. ‘Should be no trouble at all for a fine strapping man such as yourself . . .’