Frodo remained where he was, though he found difficult to keep an eye on all three at once. Most of all, the massive dog and its golden eyes, but the hobbit looked then to the Man as he took a slow step forward, then another and another. The Man really was tall, or at least, more solidly built and healthier looking than those he remembered from Bree.

"Thank you, I suppose," a hint of dryness had crept into Frodo's voice. It was not very comforting to know that one's distance between the dog, its teeth and himself hinged on whether the lad thought he was a bad person. Frodo, when he imagined these sorts, imagined orcs and goblins, wolves and wargs. He liked to think that he wasn't a bad sort, or even just ill-tempered - at least, he hoped so, that he could be the sort of hobbit that would do Bilbo proud. But for all the Man knew, he could be just as pleasant as the SBs.

'My name is Frodo. And what sort are you exactly?"