The Greatest Adventure Books for Children. Люси Мод Монтгомери

led to the village, stopped and dropped Pinocchio softly to the ground.

      “How much I do thank you!” said the Marionette.

      “It is not necessary,” answered the Dog. “You saved me once, and what is given is always returned. We are in this world to help one another.”

      “But how did you get in that cave?”

      “I was lying here on the sand more dead than alive, when an appetizing odor of fried fish came to me. That odor tickled my hunger and I followed it. Oh, if I had come a moment later!”

      “Don’t speak about it,” wailed Pinocchio, still trembling with fright. “Don’t say a word. If you had come a moment later, I would be fried, eaten, and digested by this time. Brrrrrr! I shiver at the mere thought of it.”

      Alidoro laughingly held out his paw to the Marionette, who shook it heartily, feeling that now he and the Dog were good friends. Then they bid each other good-by and the Dog went home.

      Pinocchio, left alone, walked toward a little hut near by, where an old man sat at the door sunning himself, and asked:

      “Tell me, good man, have you heard anything of a poor boy with a wounded head, whose name was Eugene?”

      “The boy was brought to this hut and now — ”

      “Now he is dead?” Pinocchio interrupted sorrowfully.

      “No, he is now alive and he has already returned home.”

      “Really? Really?” cried the Marionette, jumping around with joy. “Then the wound was not serious?”

      “But it might have been — and even mortal,” answered the old man, “for a heavy book was thrown at his head.”

      “And who threw it?”

      “A schoolmate of his, a certain Pinocchio.”

      “And who is this Pinocchio?” asked the Marionette, feigning ignorance.

      “They say he is a mischief-maker, a tramp, a street urchin — ”

      “Calumnies! All calumnies!”

      “Do you know this Pinocchio?”

      “By sight!” answered the Marionette.

      “And what do you think of him?” asked the old man.

      “I think he’s a very good boy, fond of study, obedient, kind to his Father, and to his whole family — ”

      As he was telling all these enormous lies about himself, Pinocchio touched his nose and found it twice as long as it should be. Scared out of his wits, he cried out:

      “Don’t listen to me, good man! All the wonderful things I have said are not true at all. I know Pinocchio well and he is indeed a very wicked fellow, lazy and disobedient, who instead of going to school, runs away with his playmates to have a good time.”

      At this speech, his nose returned to its natural size.

      “Why are you so pale?” the old man asked suddenly.

      “Let me tell you. Without knowing it, I rubbed myself against a newly painted wall,” he lied, ashamed to say that he had been made ready for the frying pan.

      “What have you done with your coat and your hat and your breeches?”

      “I met thieves and they robbed me. Tell me, my good man, have you not, perhaps, a little suit to give me, so that I may go home?”

      “My boy, as for clothes, I have only a bag in which I keep hops. If you want it, take it. There it is.”

      Pinocchio did not wait for him to repeat his words. He took the bag, which happened to be empty, and after cutting a big hole at the top and two at the sides, he slipped into it as if it were a shirt. Lightly clad as he was, he started out toward the village.

      Along the way he felt very uneasy. In fact he was so unhappy that he went along taking two steps forward and one back, and as he went he said to himself:

      “How shall I ever face my good little Fairy? What will she say when she sees me? Will she forgive this last trick of mine? I am sure she won’t. Oh, no, she won’t. And I deserve it, as usual! For I am a rascal, fine on promises which I never keep!”

      He came to the village late at night. It was so dark he could see nothing and it was raining pitchforks.

      Pinocchio went straight to the Fairy’s house, firmly resolved to knock at the door.

      When he found himself there, he lost courage and ran back a few steps. A second time he came to the door and again he ran back. A third time he repeated his performance. The fourth time, before he had time to lose his courage, he grasped the knocker and made a faint sound with it.

      He waited and waited and waited. Finally, after a full half hour, a top-floor window (the house had four stories) opened and Pinocchio saw a large Snail look out. A tiny light glowed on top of her head. “Who knocks at this late hour?” she called.

      “Is the Fairy home?” asked the Marionette.

      “The Fairy is asleep and does not wish to be disturbed. Who are you?”

      “It is I.”

      “Who’s I?”

      “Pinocchio.”

      “Who is Pinocchio?”

      “The Marionette; the one who lives in the Fairy’s house.”

      “Oh, I understand,” said the Snail. “Wait for me there. I’ll come down to open the door for you.”

      “Hurry, I beg of you, for I am dying of cold.”

      “My boy, I am a snail and snails are never in a hurry.”

      An hour passed, two hours; and the door was still closed. Pinocchio, who was trembling with fear and shivering from the cold rain on his back, knocked a second time, this time louder than before.

      At that second knock, a window on the third floor opened and the same Snail looked out.

      “Dear little Snail,” cried Pinocchio from the street. “I have been waiting two hours for you! And two hours on a dreadful night like this are as long as two years. Hurry, please!”

      “My boy,” answered the Snail in a calm, peaceful voice, “my dear boy, I am a snail and snails are never in a hurry.” And the window closed.

      A few minutes later midnight struck; then one o’clock — two o’clock. And the door still remained closed!

      Then Pinocchio, losing all patience, grabbed the knocker with both hands, fully determined to awaken the whole house and street with it. As soon as he touched the knocker, however, it became an eel and wiggled away into the darkness.

      “Really?” cried Pinocchio, blind with rage. “If the knocker is gone, I can still use my feet.”

      He stepped back and gave the door a most solemn kick. He kicked so hard that his foot went straight through the door and his leg followed almost to the knee. No matter how he pulled and tugged, he could not pull it out. There he stayed as if nailed to the door.

      Poor Pinocchio! The rest of the night he had to spend with one foot through the door and the other one in the air.

      As dawn was breaking, the door finally opened. That brave little animal, the Snail, had taken exactly nine hours to go from the fourth floor to the street. How she must have raced!

      “What are you doing with your foot through the door?” she asked the Marionette, laughing.