ter my
feet. But it is the king's part to look after us all, and have his
streets smooth.'

'Well, I don't see, said Curdie, 'why the king should take care of the
baker, when the baker's head won't take care of the baker's feet.'

'Who are you to make game of the king's baker?' cried the man in a rage.

But, instead of answering, Curdie went up to the bump on the street
which had repeated itself on the baker's head, and turning the hammer
end of his mattock, struck it such a blow that it flew wide in pieces.
Blow after blow he struck until he had levelled it with the street.

But out flew the barber upon him in a rage. 'What do you break my
window for, you rascal, with your pickaxe?'

'I am very sorry,' said Curdie. 'It must have been a bit of stone that
flew from my mattock. I couldn't help it, you know.'

'Couldn't help it! A fine story! What do you go breaking the rock
for--the very rock upon which the city stands?'

'Look at your friend's forehead,' said Curdie. 'See what a lump he has
got on it with falling over that same stone.'

'What's that to my window?' cried the barber. 'His forehead can mend
itself; my poor window can't.'

'But he's the king's baker,' said Curdie, more and more surprised at
the man's anger.

'What's that to me? This is a free city. Every man here takes care of
himself, and the king takes care of us all. I'll have the price of my
window out of you, or the exchequer shall pay for it.'

Something caught Curdie's eye. He stooped, picked up a piece of the
stone he had just broken, and put it in his pocket.

'I suppose you are going to break another of my windows with that
stone!' said the barber.

'Oh no,' said Curdie. 'I didn't mean to break your window, and I
certainly won't break another.'

'Give me that stone,' said the barber.

Curdie gave it him, and the barber threw it over the city wall.

'I thought you wanted the stone,' said Curdie.

'No, you fool!' answered the barber. 'What should I want with a stone?'

Curdie stooped and picked up another.

'Give me that stone,' said the barber.

'No,' answered Curdie. 'You have just told me YOU don't want a stone,
and I do.'

The barber took Curdie by the collar.

'Come, now! You pay me for that window.'

'How much?' asked Curdie.

The barber said, 'A crown.' But the baker, annoyed at the
heartlessness of the barber, in thinking more of his broken window than
the bump on his friend's forehead, interfere