Will they fire only powder from their guns, or real, lead bullets, too?"

"Indeed yes, real bullets, too."

"And will they all die?"

"We hope not all of them—but they are going to fight for the honor and greatness of their country, and he who dies for his country may die happy."

Pinocchio did not breathe. He scratched his head solemnly, and with his eyes and mouth made such a face that if the little old man had seen it he would probably have boxed his ears for him. This "die happy" was silly. Death had always frightened him whenever he had come near to it.

"Have you been to war?" Pinocchio asked the little old man, half ironically.

"Can't you see?" and he pointed to a row of medals pinned on his coat.

"And you would go back?"

"Certainly, if they would take me as a volunteer."

This reply brought a strange longing to Pinocchio, all the more that the tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock in the box inside of his body was making so much noise that it rang in his ears. And then the gay notes of the band, the joyous air of the soldiers, the cheers of the crowd, suddenly brought a strange idea into his head. The war, with its cannon, marches on one side, fighting on the other, horses dashing, flags waving in the wind, songs of victory, medals on the breast, prisoners tied together like sausages, war trophies, danced before his eyes in a fantastic dance. The war must be just the place for him, all the more so when he thought that it couldn't be easy to get to it if the little old man who had been there so often couldn't go now.

"I, too, will go to the war with the soldiers," he said, in a low voice, and without wasting a moment he pushed his way between the troops, who, now that they were approaching the station, began to close up the ranks. He found himself by the side of a young blond soldier, who seemed more lonely and sad than the others.

"Will you take me with you?" Pinocchio asked, pulling at his coat.

"Where?"

"To the war."

"You? Are you crazy?"

"No, indeed."

"And you ask me to take you with me?"

"Whom, then, must I ask?"

"There is the guard down there, that one with a blue scarf over his shoulder."

When Pinocchio got an idea in his head he had to work it out at any cost. So he repeated his demand to the lieutenant of the guard, who, smiling under his mustache, pointed out the captain inspecting the troops. But the captain could decide nothing without the consent of the battalion commander, who, for his part, would have had to ask the approval of the colonel. He advised Pinocchio to hasten matters by going to the adjutant, who could present his request directly to the general.

They were now in the station. The soldiers took their places in the huge cars, around which crowded their families, friends, and the cheering, curious throng. At the end of the train some first-class carriages were attached into which the orderlies carried the hand-baggage of their higher officers. In front of one compartment reserved for one of these was piled up a regular mountain of small objects—little packages, boxes, rugs, furs, which a cavalry soldier was trying to carry inside. The adjutant, a few feet away, was looking on, trembling with impatience and vexation.

"Quick! Quick! You lazybones! Quick! Quick! Mollica. General Win-the-War will be here in a minute and his things are not yet inside. I'll put you under arrest for a fortnight."

"I respectfully beg the adjutant to observe that I have only two hands for the service of my general and of my country."

"And I beg you to observe that the train is about to start off."

"If the adjutant would order some one to give me a hand ..."

"There isn't any one to be had, confound it!"

Just at that moment Pinocchio advanced resolutely toward the adjutant to put forward his request to be enlisted.

"Mr. Adjutant ... I have come ... to ..."

The adjutant didn't let Pinocchio say another word, but caught hold of him under the chin, squeezed him, shook him gently ... and said:

"Good! I understand ... you want to do something for the army.... Good boy! You are the best kind of a volunteer. Fine! Help Private Mollica to carry in all this stuff and your country will be grateful to you. And you, Mollica, hurry up. I beg you to observe that now you have the four hands you requested for the job. We understand each other, heh?"

Then he was off toward a group of soldiers who were chalking on the door of one of the railway carriages in large letters: "Through Train—Venice—Trieste—Vienna." A big crowd had gathered around, stopping the traffic.

"Ho, boys, who told you to write through train? Next time ask permission from your superior officer.... There will be a little stop before we get there."

"Doesn't matter, sir, as long as we get there."

"Well! You can tell when a train leaves, but not whether it will ever arrive."

"Hurrah for Italy!"

"Good boys! I like that. But rub out what you have written. You are first-class soldiers, you are. We understand each other, heh?" And off he went.

With Pinocchio's aid Private Mollica performed miracles. In a few minutes the general's things were inside, beautifully arranged in the baggage-racks.

"You are a prodigy, boy, I tell you. You have done me a great service and my adjutant will be so pleased that if you will promise to keep guard here a moment I will go to tell him so that he can thank you in the general's name."

"Go along; I'll stay," Pinocchio replied, and took up a position in front of the door that was so soldierly you might have taken him for a distant relative of Napoleon the Great before St. Helena.

But a minute had not gone by and Mollica had not got a hundred steps away when Pinocchio turned as pale as death and trembled so with fright that he almost fell off the step. He had caught sight a short way off of General Win-the-War surrounded by a crowd of officers; and with his marvelous vision had recognized in him Papa Geppetto's furious tenant, whose stained glass he had shattered a few hours before, all on account of saucy Coccorito.

He was lost; there was no possible way of escape! Win-the-War was coming direct to his compartment and the adjutant was guiding him. The crowd in the way divided before him and the soldiers stood stiffly at attention. Even Mollica stood there straight as a ramrod.... Pinocchio gave a leap into the compartment, hoping to escape by the opposite door. But it was not possible to open it.... He heard the sound of the approaching steps, the ring of the spurs.... Pinocchio flung himself down on the floor of the compartment and hid himself, face downward, under one of the seats.

The general, a colonel, and the adjutant got in. A band struck up the national air; thousands of voices cheered the King, Italy, and the Army. The soldiers responded with youthful courage.... You heard a continual medley of good-bys and good wishes, and the quick, sharp repetition of commands. A hundred voices were singing, "Farewell, my dear one, farewell"; a hundred others sang Garibaldi's Hymn.... There was a profound silence in the compartment. Perhaps the superior officers felt the great responsibility of the moment and were moved by it. Pinocchio didn't dare breathe for fear of betraying himself, but in his breast the tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock beat so loudly that he thought it must resound all along the wooden walls of the carriage. The notes of the national air seemed to be quicker ... the cries of the crowd louder ... the locomotive whistled shrilly a