The Hobbit

in. A vast steam leaped up,
     white in the sudden dark under the moon. There was a hiss, a gushing whirl, and then silence. And that was the end of Smaug
     and Esgaroth, but not of Bard.
    The waxing moon rose higher and higher and the wind grew loud and cold. It twisted the white fog into bending pillars and
     hurrying clouds and drove it off to the West to scatter in tattered shreds over the marshes before Mirkwood. Then the many
     boats could be seen dotted dark on the surface of the lake, and down the wind came the voices of the people of Esgaroth lamenting
     their lost town and goods and ruined houses. But they had really much to be thankful for, had they thought of it, though it
     could hardly be expected that they should just then: three quarters of the people of the town had at least escaped alive;
     their woods and fields and pastures and cattle and most of their boats remained undamaged; and the dragon was dead. What that
     meant they had not yet realized.
    They gathered in mournful crowds upon the western shores, shivering in the cold wind, and their first complaints and anger
     were against the Master, who had left the town so soon, while some were still willing to defend it.
    “He may have a good head for business—especially his own business,” some murmured, “but he is no good when anything serious
     happens!” And they praised the courage of Bard and his last mighty shot. “If only he had not been killed,” they all said,
     “we would make him a king. Bard the Dragon-shooter of the line of Girion! Alas that he is lost!”
    And in the very midst of their talk a tall figure stepped from the shadows. He was drenched with water, his black hair hung
     wet over his face and shoulders, and a fierce light was in his eyes.
    “Bard is not lost!” he cried. “He dived from Esgaroth, when the enemy was slain. I am Bard, of the line of Girion; I am the
     slayer of the dragon!”
    “King Bard! King Bard!” they shouted; but the Master ground his chattering teeth.
    “Girion was lord of Dale, not king of Esgaroth,” he said. “In the Lake-town we have always elected masters from among the
     old and wise, and have not endured the rule of mere fighting men. Let ‘King Bard’ go back to his own kingdom—Dale is now freed
     by his valour, and nothing hinders his return. And any that wish can go with him, if they prefer the cold stones under the
     shadow of the Mountain to the green shores of the lake. The wise will stay here and hope to rebuild our town, and enjoy again
     in time its peace and riches.”
    “We will have King Bard!” the people near at hand shouted in reply. “We have had enough of the old men and the money-counters!”
     And people further off took up the cry: “Up the Bowman, and down with Moneybags,” till the clamour echoed along the shore.
    “I am the last man to undervalue Bard the Bowman,” said the Master warily (for Bard now stood close beside him). “He has tonight
     earned an eminent place in the roll of the benefactors of our town; and he is worthy of many imperishable songs. But, why
     O People?”—and here the Master rose to his feet and spoke very loud and clear—“Why do I get all your blame? For what fault
     am I to be deposed? Who aroused the dragon from his slumber, I might ask? Who obtained of us rich gifts and ample help, and
     led us to believe that old songs could come true? Who played on our soft hearts and our pleasant fancies? What sort of gold
     have they sent down the river to reward us? Dragon-fire and ruin! From whom should we claim the recompense of our damage,
     and aid for our widows and orphans?”
    As you see, the Master had not got his position for nothing. The result of his words was that for the moment the people quite
     forgot their idea of a new king, and turned their angry thoughts towards Thorin and his company. Wild and bitter words were
     shouted from many sides; and some of those who had before sung the old songs loudest, were now heard as loudly crying that
     the dwarves had stirred the dragon up against them deliberately!
    “Fools!” said Bard. “Why waste words and wrath on those unhappy creatures? Doubtless they perished first in fire, before Smaug
     came to us.” Then even as he was speaking, the thought came into his heart of the fabled treasure of the Mountain lying without
     guard or owner, and he fell suddenly silent. He thought of the Master’s words, and of Dale rebuilt, and filled with golden
     bells, if he could