'Nay, then,' said Curdie, 'the king can't be to blame.'
'Oh, I see!' said the baker. 'You're laying a trap for me. Of course, if you come to that, it was my head that ought to have looked after 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.'