Pinocchio by Carlo Collodi Page B

were something good to eat, whole schools of fish swarmed to the water’s surface. But after sampling a page here and a frontispiece there, they spat them right back out, making the sort of face that seemed to say, “This stuff is not for us: we are accustomed to much better fare!”
    Meanwhile, as the battle was growing fiercer and fiercer, a large Crab, who had crawled ever so slowly out of the water and onto the beach, shouted out in an ugly voice that sounded like a trombone with a cold, “Cut it out, you incorrigible rascals! These fistfights between boys and boys never end well. They always end in disaster!”
    Poor Crab! He might as well have been preaching to the wind. And indeed that rogue Pinocchio turned and scowled at him, saying rudely, “Oh hush, you tiresome Crab! You’d be better off sucking on some lozenges to cure that cold of yours. Or else go to bed and try to sweat it out!”
    By this time the boys, who had finished throwing all their own books, spotted the puppet’s bundle of books lying nearby, and quick as a wink they snatched them up.
    Among these books was one that had a thick hard cover and vellum on the spine and corners. It was called Treatise on Arithmetic . I’ll let you imagine how heavy it was!
    One of those rascals snatched up that volume and, aiming at Pinocchio’s head, flung it with all his might. But instead of hitting the puppet, it struck the head of one of his companions, who turned white as a washed sheet. All he said, before collapsing onto the sand, were these words: “Oh mother help me—for I am dying.”
    At the sight of that dead-looking boy, his frightened companions took to their heels; in the blink of an eye they were out of sight.
    But Pinocchio stayed behind. And though he, too, from grief and fright, was more dead than alive, nevertheless he ran to soak his handkerchief in seawater, and he began to bathe his poor schoolmate’s temples. Pinocchio sobbed and despaired and called his schoolmate’s name and said, “Eugenio! My poor Eugenio! Open your eyes and look at me! Why aren’t you answering? I’m not the one, you know, who hurt you like this! Believe me, it wasn’t me! Open your eyes, Eugenio! If you keep your eyes closed, you’ll make me die, too! Oh, God! How can I go back home now? How can I dare face my good mother? What will become of me? Where will I run to? Where will I hide? Oh, how much better it would have been—a thousand times better—if I had gone to school today! Why did I listen to those schoolmates who are the bane of my life! The teacher even told me so! And my mother told me over and over: ‘Beware of keeping bad company!’ But I’m too stubborn, too headstrong. I always let them talk, but then I just do as I please! And I end up paying for it. And so, for as long as I’ve been in the world, I’ve never had fifteen minutes of peace. Oh, God! What will become of me, what will become of me, what will become of me!”
    And Pinocchio kept crying, and bawling, and hitting himself in the head, and calling poor Eugenio by name—when he suddenly heard the muffled sound of approaching footsteps.
    He turned, and there stood two policemen.
    â€œWhat are you doing here, stretched out on the ground?”
    â€œI’m helping this schoolmate of mine.”
    â€œHas he fallen ill?”
    â€œIt looks that way.”
    â€œHe isn’t ill!” said one of the policemen, leaning down to look closely at Eugenio. “This boy has been wounded in the temple—who wounded him?”
    â€œNot me!” sputtered the puppet, who could barely breathe.
    â€œIf it wasn’t you, then who did wound him?”
    â€œNot me!” Pinocchio said again.
    â€œAnd what was he wounded with?”
    â€œWith this book.”
    â€œAnd whose book might this be?”
    â€œMine.”
    â€œThat’s enough—we don’t need to know