Part 5 (1/2)

The doctor's all wrong. The whole trouble is somebody pulled the roof off the other day and stabbed me with a poisoned sword. I was right here in this room. I was just quietly reading _The Evening Post_. I knew no good would come of our moving into this new apartment house, with its fancy wire and green paint and free food, and all the rest of it.

DR. CONY (_to Mrs. Cottontail, who aids him in ignoring the patient_)--You can see for yourself, madame, just how rational he is. I leave him in your care, Mrs. Cottontail. Don't let him out of your sight. Try and find out where he gets his liquor. If he pleads with you for a drink, be firm with him. Follow him everywhere. Make him obey. It won't be hard in his enfeebled condition. I'll be around to-morrow. (_To Cottontail_) Remember, one drink may be fatal.

(_Exit Dr. Cony_.)

COTTONTAIL--My dear, it was a pink monster, with an enormous dagger. It lifted off the ceiling--

MRS. COTTONTAIL--Peter, can't you even be temperate in your lies?

COTTONTAIL (_sinking helplessly in his chair_)--My dear, I was just sitting quietly, reading _The Evening Post_--

MRS. COTTONTAIL--You brute! I always had a feeling you were too good to be true.

COTTONTAIL (_feebly and hopelessly_)--I was just sitting, reading _The Evening Post_ (_his voice trails off into nothingness. He sits motionless, huddled up in the chair. Suddenly he speaks again, but it is a new voice, strangely altered._) Mopsy, give me _The Sun_.

MRS. COTTONTAIL (_looking at him in amazement_)--What do you say?

COTTONTAIL (_His muscles relax. His eyes stare stupidly. He speaks without sense or expression_)--_The Sun! The Sun! The Evening Sun!_

(_He is quite mad_.)

(_Curtain_.)

Death Says It Isn't So

THE scene is a sickroom. It is probably in a hospital, for the walls are plain and all the corners are eliminated in that peculiar circular construction which is supposed to annoy germs. The shades are down and the room is almost dark. A doctor who has been examining the sick man turns to go. The nurse at his side looks at him questioningly.

THE DOCTOR (_briskly_)--I don't believe he'll last out the day. If he wakes or seems unusually restless, let me know. There's nothing to do.

He goes out quietly, but quickly, for there is another man down at the end of the corridor who is almost as sick. The nurse potters about the room for a moment or two, arranging whatever things it is that nurses arrange. She exits l. c., or, in other words, goes out the door. There is just a short pause in the dark, quiet room shut out from all outside noises and most outside light. When the steam pipes are not clanking only the slow breathing of the man on the bed can be heard. Suddenly a strange thing happens.

The door does not open or the windows, but there is unquestionably another man in the room. It couldn't have been the chimney, because there isn't any. Possibly it is an optical illusion, but the newcomer seems just a bit indistinct for a moment or so in the darkened room.

Quickly he raises both the window shades, and in the rush of bright sunlight he is definite enough in appearance. Upon better acquaintance it becomes evident that it couldn't have been the chimney, even if there had been one. The visitor is undeniably bulky, although extraordinarily brisk in his movements. He has a trick which will develop later in the scene of blus.h.i.+ng on the slightest provocation. At that his color is habitually high. But this round, red, little man, peculiarly enough, has thin white hands and long tapering fingers, like an artist or a newspaper cartoonist. Very possibly his touch would be lighter than that of the nurse herself. At any rate, it is evident that he walks much more quietly. This is strange, for he does not rise on his toes, but puts his feet squarely on the ground. They are large feet, shod in heavy hobnail boots. No one but a golfer or a day laborer would wear such shoes.

The hands of the little, round, red man preclude the idea that he is a laborer. The impression that he is a golfer is heightened by the fact that he is dressed loudly in very bad taste. In fact, he wears a plaid vest of the sort which was brought over from Scotland in the days when clubs were called sticks. The man in the gaudy vest surveys the suns.h.i.+ne with great satisfaction. It reaches every corner of the room, or rather it would but for the fact that the corners have been turned into curves. A stray beam falls across the eyes of the sick man on the bed.

He wakes, and, rubbing his eyes an instant, slowly sits up in bed and looks severely at the fat little man.

THE SICK MAN (_feebly, but vehemently_)--No, you don't. I won't stand for any male nurse. I want Miss Bluchblauer.

THE FAT MAN--I'm not a nurse, exactly.

THE SICK MAN--Who are you?

THE FAT MAN (_cheerfully and in a matter of fact tone_)--I'm Death.

THE SICK MAN (_sinking back on the bed_)--That rotten fever's up again.

I'm seeing things.

THE FAT MAN (_almost plaintively_)--Don't you believe I'm Death? Honest, I am. I wouldn't fool you. (_He fumbles in his pockets and produces in rapid succession a golf ball, a baseball pa.s.s, a G string, a large lump of gold, a receipted bill, two theater tickets and a white ma.s.s of sticky confection which looks as though it might be a combination of honey and something--milk, perhaps_)--I've gone and left that card case again, but I'm Death, all right.