I could not help running up to the gentleman to beg for his pardon.

He told me not to cry, and put some potatoes he had been picking up all into my hand.
They were muddy, but he wiped them first; and he said it was not the first time he had stood fire, and then said good-bye; and I slipped the potatoes into my pocket immediately, thankful that they were not wasted.
My father pulled me away roughly from the laughing and staring people on the bridge.

But I knew the potatoes were only bruised.

Even three potatoes will prevent you from starving.

They were very fine ones, for I always took care to buy them good.