Off ran the boys—­off ran the rascal with my book.  Oh dear, I thought I should have died; up I got, however, and ran after them as well as I could; I thought of my fruit, but I thought more of my book.  I left my fruit and ran after my book.  “My book! my book!” I shrieked, “murder! theft! robbery!” I was near being crushed under the wheels of a cart; but I didn’t care—­I followed the rascals.  “Stop them! stop them!” I ran nearly as fast as they—­they couldn’t run very fast on account of the crowd.  At last some one stopped the rascal, whereupon he turned round, and flinging the book at me, it fell into the mud; well, I picked it up and kissed it, all muddy as it was.  “Has he robbed you?” said the man.  “Robbed me, indeed; why he had got my book.”  “Oh, your book,” said the man, and laughed, and let the rascal go.  Ah, he might laugh, but—­’

‘Well, go on.’

’My heart beats so.  Well, I went back to my booth and picked up my stall and my fruits, what I could find of them.  I couldn’t keep my stall for two days I got such a fright, and when I got round I couldn’t bide the booth where the thing had happened, so I came over to the other side.  Oh, the rascals, if I could but see them hanged.’

‘For what?’

‘Why, for stealing my book.’

’I thought you didn’t dislike stealing,—­that you were ready to buy things—­there was your son, you know—­’

‘Yes, to be sure.’

‘He took things.’

‘To be sure he did.’

‘But you don’t like a thing of yours to be taken.’

’No, that’s quite a different thing; what’s stealing handkerchiefs, and that kind of thing, to do with taking my book? there’s a wide difference—­don’t you see?’

‘Yes, I see.’

’Do you, dear? well, bless your heart, I’m glad you do.  Would you like to look at the book?’

‘Well, I think I should.’

‘Honour bright?’ said the apple-woman, looking me in the eyes.

‘Honour bright,’ said I, looking the apple-woman in the eyes.

‘Well then, dear, here it is,’ said she, taking it from under her cloak; ’read it as long as you like, only get a little farther into the booth—­ Don’t sit so near the edge—­you might—­’

I went deep into the booth, and the apple-woman, bringing her chair round, almost confronted me.  I commenced reading the book, and was soon engrossed by it; hours passed away, once or twice I lifted up my eyes, the apple-woman was still confronting me:  at last my eyes began to ache, whereupon I returned the book to the apple-woman, and, giving her another tanner, walked away.

CHAPTER XLI

Decease of the Review—­Homer himself—­Bread and cheese—­Finger and thumb—­Impossible to find—­Something grand—­Universal mixture—­Some other publisher.