Curdie hastened to help him up, and found he had bruised his forehead badly.
He swore grievously at the stone for tripping him up, declaring it was the third time he had fallen over it within the last month; and saying what was the king about that he allowed such a stone to stick up forever on the main street of his royal residence of Gwyntystorm! What was a king for if he would not take care of his people's heads! And he stroked his forehead tenderly.
'Was it your head or your feet that ought to bear the blame of your fall ?' asked Curdie.
'Why, you booby of a miner! My feet, of course,' answered the baker.
'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.