'As a rule,' said the Talking-cricket with the same composure, 'all those who follow that trade end almost always either in a hospital or in prison.'
'Take care, you wicked ill-omened croaker! . . . Woe to you if I fly into a passion! . . .'
'Poor Pinocchio! I really pity you! . . .'
'Why do you pity me?'
'Because you are a puppet and, what is worse, because you have a wooden head.'
At these last words Pinocchio jumped up in a rage, and snatching a wooden hammer from the bench he threw it at the Talking-cricket.
Perhaps he never meant to hit him; but unfortunately it struck him exactly on the head, so that the poor Cricket had scarcely breath to cry cri-cri-cri, and then he remained dried up and flattened against the wall.