“Anything else?”

“Nothing else,” answered the Fox.  “Now we can go.  Return here within twenty minutes and you will find the vine grown and the branches filled with gold pieces.”

Pinocchio, beside himself with joy, thanked the Fox and the Cat many times and promised them each a beautiful gift.

“We don’t want any of your gifts,” answered the two rogues.  “It is enough for us that we have helped you to become rich with little or no trouble.  For this we are as happy as kings.”

They said good-by to Pinocchio and, wishing him good luck, went on their way.

CHAPTER 19

Pinocchio is robbed of his gold pieces and, in punishment, is sentenced to four months in prison.

If the Marionette had been told to wait a day instead of twenty minutes, the time could not have seemed longer to him.  He walked impatiently to and fro and finally turned his nose toward the Field of Wonders.

And as he walked with hurried steps, his heart beat with an excited tic, tac, tic, tac, just as if it were a wall clock, and his busy brain kept thinking: 

“What if, instead of a thousand, I should find two thousand?  Or if, instead of two thousand, I should find five thousand—­or one hundred thousand?  I’ll build myself a beautiful palace, with a thousand stables filled with a thousand wooden horses to play with, a cellar overflowing with lemonade and ice cream soda, and a library of candies and fruits, cakes and cookies.”

Thus amusing himself with fancies, he came to the field.  There he stopped to see if, by any chance, a vine filled with gold coins was in sight.  But he saw nothing!  He took a few steps forward, and still nothing!  He stepped into the field.  He went up to the place where he had dug the hole and buried the gold pieces.  Again nothing!  Pinocchio became very thoughtful and, forgetting his good manners altogether, he pulled a hand out of his pocket and gave his head a thorough scratching.

As he did so, he heard a hearty burst of laughter close to his head.  He turned sharply, and there, just above him on the branch of a tree, sat a large Parrot, busily preening his feathers.

“What are you laughing at?” Pinocchio asked peevishly.

“I am laughing because, in preening my feathers, I tickled myself under the wings.”

The Marionette did not answer.  He walked to the brook, filled his shoe with water, and once more sprinkled the ground which covered the gold pieces.

Another burst of laughter, even more impertinent than the first, was heard in the quiet field.

“Well,” cried the Marionette, angrily this time, “may I know, Mr. Parrot, what amuses you so?”

“I am laughing at those simpletons who believe everything they hear and who allow themselves to be caught so easily in the traps set for them.”

“Do you, perhaps, mean me?”