“Just look at him, Mr. Frodo,” whispered Sam.
Frodo looked. Strider sat cross-legged not far away, sharpening a lethal-looking blade, the firelight flickering on his grim face.
“He’s got more metal on him than the blacksmith,” insisted Sam. “Knives and a whole sword and that broken one, too. Does an honest fellow need all that?”
“In the Shire, no,” said Frodo. “But here? I think he really is a friend of Gandalf’s.”
“Poppycock!” said Sam. “I’ll believe that when I hear it from the old man himself. But don’t worry, Mr. Frodo. I won’t let that Strider get at you.”