“And what road must I take to go there?”

“You must take that path to your left and follow your nose.  You cannot make a mistake.”

“Will you tell me another thing?  You who swim about the sea all day and all night, have you by chance met a little boat with my papa in it?”

“And who is your papa?”

“He is the best papa in the world, whilst it would be difficult to find a worse son than I am.”

“During the terrible storm last night,” answered the Dolphin, “the little boat must have gone to the bottom.”

“And my papa?”

“He must have been swallowed by the terrible Dog-Fish, who for some days past has been spreading devastation and ruin in our waters.”

“Is this Dog-Fish very big?” asked Pinocchio, who was already beginning to quake with fear.

“Big!” replied the Dolphin.  “That you may form some idea of his size, I need only tell you that he is bigger than a five-storied house, and that his mouth is so enormous and so deep that a railway train with its smoking engine could pass down his throat.”

“Mercy upon us!” exclaimed the terrified puppet; and, putting on his clothes with the greatest haste, he said to the Dolphin: 

“Good-bye, Sir Fish; excuse the trouble I have given you, and many thanks for your politeness.”

He then took the path that had been pointed out to him and began to walk fast—­so fast, indeed, that he was almost running.  And at the slightest noise he turned to look behind him, fearing that he might see the terrible Dog-Fish with a railway train in its mouth following him.

After a walk of half an hour he reached a little village called “The Village of the Industrious Bees.”  The road was alive with people running here and there to attend to their business; all were at work, all had something to do.  You could not have found an idler or a vagabond, not even if you had searched for him with a lighted lamp.

“Ah!” said that lazy Pinocchio at once, “I see that this village will never suit me!  I wasn’t born to work!”

In the meanwhile he was tormented by hunger, for he had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours—­not even vetch.  What was he to do?

There were only two ways by which he could obtain food—­either by asking for a little work, or by begging for a nickel or for a mouthful of bread.

He was ashamed to beg, for his father had always preached to him that no one had a right to beg except the aged and the infirm.  The really poor in this world, deserving of compassion and assistance, are only those who from age or sickness are no longer able to earn their own bread with the labor of their hands.  It is the duty of every one else to work; and if they will not work, so much the worse for them if they suffer from hunger.

At that moment a man came down the road, tired and panting for breath.  He was dragging, alone, with fatigue and difficulty, two carts full of charcoal.