As it happened, it was a hellish, wild night. The thunder crashed and crashed, the lightning flashed as if the sky were catching fire, and a cold, blustering wind, whistling furiously and raising a vast cloud of dust, made all the trees in the countryside creak and groan.
Pinocchio was very much afraid of thunder and lightning: but his hunger was stronger than his fear: which is why he pulled the front door to behind him, and setting off at full speed, in a hundred leaps or so he reached the village, his tongue hanging out and panting hard, like a hunting dog.
But he found everything dark and deserted. The shops were shut; the front doors shut, the windows shut, and not so much as a dog in the street. It looked like the village of the dead.
Then Pinocchio, overcome by despair and hunger, grabbed hold of the bell of a house and began ringing it for all he was worth, saying to himself:
“Somebody is sure to look out.”
And indeed an old man looked out, with a nightcap on his head, who shouted very crossly:
“What do you want at this hour?”
“Would you be so kind as to give me a bit of bread?”
“Wait there, I'll be right back,” answered the little old man, thinking he was dealing with one of those young ruffians who amuse themselves at night by ringing people's doorbells, to annoy decent folk who are sleeping peacefully.
After half a minute the window opened again, and the voice of the same little old man shouted to Pinocchio:
“Come right underneath and hold out your hat.”
Pinocchio, who did not yet have a hat, went closer and felt a huge basinful of water pouring down on him, which drenched him all over, from head to foot, as if he were a pot of withered geraniums.
He went home as wet as a drowned chick and worn out with tiredness and hunger: and because he no longer had the strength to stand up, he sat down, resting his soaked and mud-spattered feet on a brazier full of glowing embers.
And there he fell asleep; and while he slept, his feet, which were made of wood, caught fire, and little by little they charred and turned to ashes.
And Pinocchio went on sleeping and snoring, as if his feet belonged to somebody else. At last, at daybreak, he woke up, because someone had knocked at the door.
“Who is it?” he asked, yawning and rubbing his eyes.
“It's me!” answered a voice.
That voice was the voice of Geppetto.