'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, interfered.
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