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A rough hand grabbed his shoulder, spun him around.
“Caught you at last, you young thief!”
Mud-caked mushrooms spilled from Frodo’s nimble fingers. He stared at Farmer Maggot’s broad red face in silent terror, like a rabbit caught in a snare. Farmer Maggot dragged him to the back of his cottage. As whack after whack descended on his backside, Frodo vowed that nothing could be worse.
After the whip cracked down on his back for the third or maybe fifth time, and he clutched in vain at his neck, around which the chain had rested, he thought he knew better.