thought he had put his head into the top of an ink bottle. He listened but he heard nothing. From time to time he felt a great gust of wind striking his face. At first he did not know whence that wind came, but afterward he thought it was from the lungs of the monster; for you must know, my little readers, that the Dogfish was a great sufferer from asthma, and when he breathed it sounded like the north wind.
At first Pinocchio tried to be brave; but when he had tried and then tried again to find an exit and found himself still inclosed in the body of the monster, he began to cry and to scream: “Help! help! Oh, dear me! Is there no one who can save me?”
“Who wishes to be saved?” asked a voice that sounded in the darkness like a guitar out of tune.
“Who is it that speaks like that?” asked Pinocchio, feeling himself nearly frozen with fear.
“It is I. I am a poor Tunny fish, who was swallowed at the same time you were. What kind of fish are you?”
“I have nothing to do with fishes. I am a marionette.”
“Then, if you are not a fish, why were you swallowed by the monster?”
