LITMIR.BIZ

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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 to 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, interfered.

      "No, no," he said to Curdie; "don't you pay any such sum. A little pane like that cost only a quarter."

      "Well, to be certain," said Curdie, "I'll give him a half." For he doubted the baker as well as the barber. "Perhaps one day, if he finds he has asked too much, he will bring me the difference."

      "Ha! ha!" laughed the barber. "A fool and his money are soon parted."

      But as he took the coin from Curdie's hand he grasped it in affected reconciliation and real satisfaction. In Curdie's, his was the cold smooth leathery palm of a monkey. He looked up, almost expecting to see him pop the money in his cheek; but he had not yet got so far as that, though he was well on the road to it: then he would have no other pocket.

      "I'm glad that stone is gone, anyhow," said the baker. "It was the bane of my life. I had no idea how easy it was to remove it. Give me your pickaxe, young miner, and I will show you how a baker can make the stones fly."

      He caught the tool out of Curdie's hand, and flew at one of the foundation stones of the gateway. But he jarred his arm terribly, scarcely chipped the stone, dropped the mattock with a cry of pain, and ran into his own shop. Curdie picked up his implement, and looking after the baker, saw bread in the window, and followed him in. But the baker, ashamed of himself, and thinking he was coming to laugh at him, popped out of the back door, and when Curdie entered, the baker's wife came from the bakehouse to serve him. Curdie requested to know the price of a certain good-sized loaf.

      Now the baker's wife had been watching what had passed since first her husband ran out of the shop, and she liked the look of Curdie. Also she was more honest than her husband. Casting a glance to the back door, she replied,—

      "That is not the best bread. I will sell you a loaf of what we bake for ourselves." And when she had spoken she laid a finger on her lips. "Take care of yourself in this place, my son," she added. "They do not love strangers. I was once a stranger here, and I know what I say." Then fancying she heard her husband,—"That is a strange animal you have," she said, in a louder voice.

      "Yes," answered Curdie. "She is no beauty, but she is very good, and we love each other. Don't we, Lina?"

      Lina looked up and whined. Curdie threw her the half of his loaf, which she ate while her master and the baker's wife talked a little. Then the baker's wife gave them some water, and Curdie having paid for his loaf, he and Lina went up the street together.

      Chapter XIV.

       The Dogs of Gwyntystorm

       Table of Contents

      The steep street led them straight up to a large market-place, with butchers' shops, about which were many dogs. The moment they caught sight of Lina, one and all they came rushing down upon her, giving her no chance of explaining herself. When Curdie saw the dogs coming he heaved up his mattock over his shoulder, and was ready, if they would have it so. Seeing him thus prepared to defend his follower, a great ugly bull-dog flew at him. With the first blow Curdie struck him through the brain, and the brute fell dead at his feet. But he could not at once recover his weapon, which stuck in the skull of his foe, and a huge mastiff, seeing him thus hampered, flew at him next. Now Lina, who had shown herself so brave upon the road thither, had grown shy upon entering the city, and kept always at Curdie's heel. But it was her turn now. The moment she saw her master in danger she seemed to go mad with rage. As the mastiff jumped at Curdie's throat, Lina flew at his, seized him with her tremendous jaws, gave one roaring grind, and he lay beside the bull-dog with his neck broken. They were the best dogs in the market, after the judgment of the butchers of Gwyntystorm. Down came their masters, knife in hand.

      Curdie drew himself up fearlessly, mattock on shoulder, and awaited their coming, while at his heel his awful attendant showed not only her outside fringe of icicle-teeth, but a double row of right serviceable fangs she wore inside her mouth, and her green eyes flashed yellow as gold. The butchers not liking the look either of them or of the dogs at their feet, drew back, and began to remonstrate in the manner of outraged men.

      "Stranger," said the first, "that bull-dog is mine."

      "Take him, then," said Curdie, indignant.

      "You've killed him!"

      "Yes—else he would have killed me."

      "That's no business of mine."

      "No?"

      "No."

      "That makes it the more mine, then."

      "This sort of thing won't do, you know," said the other butcher.

      "That's true," said Curdie.

      "That's my mastiff," said the butcher.

      "And as he ought to be," said Curdie.

      "Your brute shall be burnt alive for it," said the butcher.

      "Not yet," answered Curdie. "We have done no wrong. We were walking quietly up your street, when your dogs flew at us. If you don't teach your dogs how to treat strangers, you must take the consequences."

      "They treat them quite properly," said the butcher. "What right has any one to bring an abomination like that into our city? The horror is enough to make an idiot of every child in the place."

      "We are both subjects of the king, and my poor animal can't help her looks. How would you like to be served like that because you were ugly? She's not a bit fonder of her looks than you are—only what can she do to change them?"

      "I'll do to change them," said the fellow.

      Thereupon

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