"Excuse me, but will you do me a favor?"

"What do you want? Keep quiet ... leave me alone ... you make me lose my thread of thought ..."

"So you write with thread, do you? Are you aware that they don't use this any more?"

"Stop your nonsense. Leave me alone, puppet."

"Do me a favor and then ..."

"What is it? Spit it out!"

"Lend me a pencil and a piece of paper."

"You want to write, too?"

"Yes."

"Then you, too, have some one in the world who interests you?"

"Yes ... perhaps."

"A G.o.dmother like mine?"

"Hum! No indeed."

"You are serious about wanting to write?"

"Yes."

"Here's paper and pencil, then. Do you know how to write?"

"Once I knew how."

"All right. Then let me see it."

"Gladly."

Pinocchio rested his elbows on his knees, chin on his clasped hands, and, biting his pencil, lost himself in profound meditation.

"Excuse me, Bersaglierino."

"Ho! Finished already?"

"No ... that is ... yes, I have finished beginning, but ... I don't know what you put before the beginning."

"Write, 'Dear So-and-so,' or 'My darling, etc., etc.'"

"But you see I can't put either 'dear' or 'my darling.'"

"So you are writing to a creditor?"

"Something like that."

"Heavens! Put his first name, his last name, swear at him, and that's enough."

"Excuse me, Bersaglierino..."

"Oh, are you still there?"

"Yes.... I haven't been able to start the beginning because ..."

"Do you or do you not know how to write?"

"Like a lawyer."

"Then?"

"I don't know what his last name is."

"Whose?"

"Franz Joe's."

"Writing to him? You want to write to him? To that miserable Hapsburg?"

The news spread like lightning through the camp. The soldiers pa.s.sed it from mouth to mouth, laughing like mad: Pinocchio was writing to Emperor Franz Joseph! This was interesting. They must know what the letter said. It would certainly be something to amuse them. So walking quietly, as if they were all eager to take him in the very act, they approached the tent where Pinocchio was composing his missive, not without difficulty. He had not been writing for several minutes and the words seemed so long to put down on paper. He had to keep thinking of the spelling, and the verbs bothered him terribly. When he raised his head to draw a breath of relief before re-reading what he had managed to write, he found himself surrounded by all the regiment.

"Oh, you are well brought up, aren't you? Who taught you to stick your noses into other people's business?"

"To whom have you written?"

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"To the one I wanted to."

"Let's see the scribbling."

"Look in your mirror and you will see worse lines on your own face."

"We want to read the letter."

"But if you are a pack of illiterates ..."

"Listen, either you will let me see it or I will take you by one ear and the letter with the other hand, and I'll carry you both off to the censor, who will haul you before a court martial that will condemn you to be shot in the back."