Pinocchio hated the dark street, but he was so hungry that, in spite of it, he ran out of the house. The night was pitch black. It thundered, and bright flashes of lightning now and again shot across the sky, turning it into a sea of fire. An angry wind blew cold and raised dense clouds of dust, while the trees shook and moaned in a weird way. Pinocchio was greatly afraid of thunder and lightning, but the hunger he felt was far greater than his fear. In a dozen leaps and bounds, he came to the village, tired out, puffing like a whale, and with tongue hanging. The whole village was dark and deserted. The stores were closed, the doors, the windows. In the streets, not even a dog could be seen. It seemed the Village of the Dead. Pinocchio, in desperation, ran up to a doorway, threw himself upon the bell, and pulled it wildly, saying to himself: “Someone will surely answer that!” He was right. An old man in a nightcap opened the window and looked out. He called down angrily: “What do you want at this hour of night?” “Will you be good enough to give me a bit of bread? I am hungry.” “Wait a minute and I’ll come right back,” answered the old fellow, thinking he had to deal with one of those boys who love to roam around at night ringing people’s bells while they are peacefully asleep. After a minute or two, the same voice cried: “Get under the window and hold out your hat!” Pinocchio had no hat, but he managed to get under the window just in time to feel a shower of ice-cold water pour down on his poor wooden head, his shoulders, and over his whole body. He returned home as wet as a rag, and tired out from weariness and hunger. As he no longer had any strength left with which to stand, he sat down on a little stool and put his two feet on the stove to dry them. There he fell asleep, and while he slept, his wooden feet began to burn. Slowly, very slowly, they blackened and turned to ashes. Pinocchio snored away happily as if his feet were not his own. At dawn he opened his eyes just as a loud knocking sounded at the door. “Who is it?” he called, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “It is I,” answered a voice. It was the voice of Geppetto. CHAPTER 7 Geppetto returns home and gives his own breakfast to the Marionette The poor Marionette, who was still half asleep, had not yet found out that his two feet were burned and gone. As soon as he heard his Father’s voice, he jumped up from his seat to open the door, but, as he did so, he staggered and fell headlong to the floor. In falling, he made as much noise as a sack of wood falling from the fifth story of a house. “Open the door for me!” Geppetto shouted from the street. “Father, dear Father, I can’t,” answered the Marionette in despair, crying and rolling on the floor. “Why can’t you?” “Because someone has eaten my feet.” “And who has eaten them?” “The cat,” answered Pinocchio, seeing that little animal busily playing with some shavings in the corner of the room.