“At the Field of Wonders, at sunrise tomorrow morning.”

Pinocchio paid a gold piece for the three suppers and started on his way toward the field that was to make him a rich man.

He walked on, not knowing where he was going, for it was dark, so dark that not a thing was visible.  Round about him, not a leaf stirred.  A few bats skimmed his nose now and again and scared him half to death.  Once or twice he shouted, “Who goes there?” and the far-away hills echoed back to him, “Who goes there?  Who goes there?  Who goes. . . ?”

As he walked, Pinocchio noticed a tiny insect glimmering on the trunk of a tree, a small being that glowed with a pale, soft light.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I am the ghost of the Talking Cricket,” answered the little being in a faint voice that sounded as if it came from a far-away world.

“What do you want?” asked the Marionette.

“I want to give you a few words of good advice.  Return home and give the four gold pieces you have left to your poor old father who is weeping because he has not seen you for many a day.”

“Tomorrow my father will be a rich man, for these four gold pieces will become two thousand.”

“Don’t listen to those who promise you wealth overnight, my boy.  As a rule they are either fools or swindlers!  Listen to me and go home.”

“But I want to go on!”

“The hour is late!”

“I want to go on.”

“The night is very dark.”

“I want to go on.”

“The road is dangerous.”

“I want to go on.”

“Remember that boys who insist on having their own way, sooner or later come to grief.”

“The same nonsense.  Good-by, Cricket.”

“Good night, Pinocchio, and may Heaven preserve you from the Assassins.”

There was silence for a minute and the light of the Talking Cricket disappeared suddenly, just as if someone had snuffed it out.  Once again the road was plunged in darkness.

CHAPTER 14

Pinocchio, not having listened to the good advice of the Talking
Cricket, falls into the hands of the Assassins.

“Dear, oh, dear!  When I come to think of it,” said the Marionette to himself, as he once more set out on his journey, “we boys are really very unlucky.  Everybody scolds us, everybody gives us advice, everybody warns us.  If we were to allow it, everyone would try to be father and mother to us; everyone, even the Talking Cricket.  Take me, for example.  Just because I would not listen to that bothersome Cricket, who knows how many misfortunes may be awaiting me!  Assassins indeed!  At least I have never believed in them, nor ever will.  To speak sensibly, I think assassins have been invented by fathers and mothers to frighten children who want to run away at night.  And then, even if I were to meet them on the road, what matter?  I’ll just run up to them, and say, ’Well, signori, what do you want?  Remember that you can’t fool with me!  Run along and mind your business.’  At such a speech, I can almost see those poor fellows running like the wind.  But in case they don’t run away, I can always run myself. . .”