To his alarm Frodo became aware that the ridiculous young Took, encouraged his 'pints', was now actually giving a comic account of Bilbo’s farewell party to the Prancing Pony. He was already giving an imitation of the Speech, and was drawing near to the astonishing Disappearance. Frodo was annoyed. It was a harmless enough tale for most of the local hobbits, no doubt: just a funny story about those funny people away beyond the River; but some (old Butterbur, for instance) knew a thing or two, and had probably heard rumours long ago about Bilbo’s vanishing. It would bring the name of Baggins to their minds, especially if there had been inquiries in Bree after that name.
Frodo fidgeted, wondering what to do. Pippin was evidently much enjoying the attention he was getting, and had become quite forgetful of their danger. Frodo had a sudden fear that in his present mood he might even mention the Ring; and that might well be disastrous. ‘You had better do something quick!’ he thought.
Frodo jumped up and stood on a table, and began to a speech. The attention of Pippin’s audience was disturbed. Some of the hobbits looked at Frodo and laughed and clapped, thinking that Mr. Underhill had taken as much ale as was good for him. Frodo suddenly felt very foolish, and found himself (as was his habit when making a speech) fingering the things in his pocket. He felt the Ring on its chain, and quite unaccountably the desire came over him to slip it on and vanish out of the silly situation. Neither Bilbo nor Gandalf had quite fully described the workings of the Ring, only that it could render its wearer 'unseen', able to walk unhindered among any foe, though it seemed to him, somehow, as if the suggestion came to him from outside, from someone or something in the room. He resisted the temptation firmly, and clasped the Ring in his hand, as if to keep a hold on it and prevent it from escaping or doing any mischief. At any rate it gave him no inspiration.
He spoke ‘a few suitable words’, as they would have said in the Shire: We are all very much gratified by the kindness of your reception, and I venture to hope that my brief visit will help to renew the old ties of friendship between the Shire and Bree; and then he hesitated and coughed. Everyone in the room was now looking at him. As the expectation drew out, they started to turn back to Pippin, to his tales of 'magic' and 'rings'.
Defeated, Frodo climbed down but the table was slick with ale; and he slipped, came down, bang, into a tray full of mugs, and rolled with a crash, clatter, and bump! The audience all opened their mouths wide for laughter, and stopped short in gaping silence; for the hobbit disappeared. And in its place, a comely young maiden.
How the Ring came to be on his finger, Frodo could not tell. He could only suppose that he had been handling it in his pocket while he fell , and that somehow it had slipped on when he stuck out his hand with a jerk to save his fall. For a moment he wondered if the Ring itself had not played him a trick; perhaps it had tried to reveal itself in response to some wish or command that was felt in the room.
In any event, the Ring was on his finger now, and had concealed him for the human tavern as well as any elven cloak, for now a fine human bosom was upon his chest, and a fine feminine form to go along with it! While his appearance may not have gone unnoticed, it would not be remarked as that of a Hobbit from the Shire.
There was loud and long applause as Frodo got clumsilly onto his long legs. Frodo had a good ass, and the sight tickled their fancy. ‘Where’s old Barley?’ they cried. ‘He ought to see this.’ They called for more ale, and began to shout: ‘Let’s have it again, mistress! Come on now! Once more!’ They made Frodo have another drink. 'At least I have their attention', he thought. 'Now if only I can keep it. 'And so he begin to sing, while many of them joined in; for the tune was well known, and they were quick at picking up words. It was now Frodo’s turn to feel pleased with himself. He capered about on the table; and when he came to his second encor, he leaped in the air. Much too vigorously; for he came down, his heavy breasts bouncing resplendantly, the cries of jubilant approval drawing even more drunken Men of Bree to the show.
He danced and pranced for their delight, fending off the grasping fingers that felt for him with flirtatious slaps. From his high vantage point (atop the table and in the towering form (to Frodo) of a human), Frodo kept a keen eye on his companions, until at last he was satisfied that they were too inebrieted and aroused by his display to continue spilling the beans.
But there was one swarthy Breelander who stood looking at him with a knowing and half-mocking expression that made Frodo feel very uncomfortable. Presently he slipped out of the door, followed by the squint-eyed southerner: the two had been whispering together a good deal during the evening. Frodo felt a fool. Not knowing what else to do, he gave a deep bow, his tits falling from his cloak to a roar of applause, and scurried down from the table to the dark corner by Strider, who sat unmoved, giving no sign of his thoughts.
Frodo leaned back against the wall, steading his breathing and the rise and fall of his chest.
‘Well?’ Strider whispered, stepping close. Frodo was surprised to find himself almost on a level with the gaze of this Man, and surprised more by the strange feelings that kindled within his nethers at his closeness, which he put down to the excess of strong brew forced upon him by his crowd. ‘Why did you do that? Worse than anything your friends could have said! You have put your foot in it! Or should I say your finger?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Frodo, annoyed and alarmed.
‘Oh yes, you do,’ answered Strider; ‘but we had better wait until the uproar has died down. Then, if you please, Mr. Baggins, I should like a quiet word with you.’