sides. Then the manager said to them in a wheezing tone: “Bring me Harlequin, bound tightly, and then throw him on the fire. I want that roast cooked well.”
Just imagine how poor Harlequin must have felt! He was so scared that his legs refused to support him, and he fell face downward on the floor. Pinocchio, at this most pitiful sight, threw himself at the feet of the manager, and, crying so hard that he wet the long, black beard of Fire Eater, said in a supplicating voice, “Pity, Mr. Fire Eater!”
“There are no Misters here,” replied the manager in a dry tone.
“Pity, Mr. Cavalier!”
“There are no cavaliers here.”
“Pity, Mr. Commander!”
“There are no commanders here.”
“Pity, Your Excellency!”
At hearing himself called “Excellency” the manager immediately pursed up his lips and became more humane and tractable. He said to Pinocchio, “Well, what do you wish?”
“I ask pity for poor Harlequin.”
“I have saved you, but I must put some one on the fire, so that my meat shall be well cooked.”
“In that case,” cried Pinocchio, proudly, straightening himself and throwing aside his cap of bread
