“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.
XIV
The Dogs of Gwyntystorm
The steep street led them straight up to a large marketplace, 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 bulldog 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 bulldog 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 bulldog 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 anyone 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 the butchers brandished their long knives and advanced, keeping their eyes upon Lina.
“Don’t be afraid, Lina,” cried Curdie. “I’ll kill one—you kill the other.”
Lina gave a howl that might have terrified an army, and crouched ready to spring. The butchers turned and ran.
By this time a great crowd had gathered behind the butchers, and in it a number of boys returning from school, who began to stone the strangers. It was a way they had with man or beast they did not expect to make anything by. One of the stones struck Lina; she caught it in her teeth and crunched it that it fell in gravel from her mouth. Some of the
