Poor Cecco saw something shining in the darkness and ran towards it. “There’s a light!” he cried.
But it was only a tin can, battered, and shining in the wet. Near it lay an old boot. That was no help either, for it was soaked through and gaping at the toe. In any case there was not room for them both to creep inside.
“If only there were a box,” thought Poor Cecco, “we could crawl into that and be sheltered till the morning.” But it is always the way with boxes, that however many there may be in the world one is never to be found when you most need it.
There was nothing to do but keep on, but presently they found a path at least. It was not much of a path, but fairly plain to trace between the tall weeds, and it must surely lead somewhere, for that is what paths are for. And it did lead them presently, and after a very long time, to a tumbledown wooden fence.
Poor Cecco stood and sniffed.
“It smells like a house,” he said at last. “Yes, it certainly smells like a house!” And he squeezed himself through the wooden palings and dragged Bulka after him.
Here perhaps was the end of their troubles. A house it might be, but the question was, what sort of people lived in it, and that wasn’t easy to tell from the outside, especially after dark. But while they stood there shivering, and wondering whether they should go to the door and
