recital, redoubled their noise and outcries, and, putting Pinocchio on
their shoulders, they carried him in triumph before the footlights.

At that moment out came the showman. He was very big, and so ugly that
the sight of him was enough to frighten anyone. His beard was as black
as ink, and so long that it reached from his chin to the ground. I need
only say that he trod upon it when he walked. His mouth was as big as an
oven, and his eyes were like two lanterns of red glass with lights
burning inside them. He carried a large whip made of snakes and foxes'
tails twisted together, which he cracked constantly.

At his unexpected appearance there was a profound silence: no one dared
to breathe. A fly might have been heard in the stillness. The poor
puppets of both sexes trembled like so many leaves.

"Why have you come to raise a disturbance in my theater?" asked the
showman of Pinocchio, in the gruff voice of a hobgoblin suffering from a
severe cold in the head.

"Believe me, honored sir, it was not my fault!"

"That is enough! Tonight we will settle our accounts."

As soon as the play was over the showman went into the kitchen, where a
fine sheep, preparing for his supper, was turning slowly on the spit in
front of the fire. As there was not enough wood to finish roasting and
browning it, he called Harlequin and Punch, and said to them:

"Bring that puppet here: you will find him hanging on a nail. It seems
to me that he is made of very dry wood and I am sure that if he were