Part 6 (2/2)

THE SICK MAN--A lot of things must have been happening since I got sick.

I hadn't heard he was dead. At that I always thought that vegetable truck was unhealthy.

THE FAT MAN--He isn't dead.

THE SICK MAN--Well, how about this ”Ah, There, Annie!”? He never wrote that show down here.

THE FAT MAN--But he will.

THE SICK MAN (_enormously impressed_)--Do you get shows there before we have them in New York?

THE FAT MAN--I tell you we get them before they're written.

THE SICK MAN (_indignantly_)--How can you do that?

THE FAT MAN--I wish you wouldn't ask me. The answer's awfully complicated. You've got to know a lot of higher math. Wait and ask Euclid about it. We don't have any past and future, you know. None of that nuisance about keeping shall and will straight.

THE SICK MAN--Well, I must say that's quite a stunt. You get shows before they're written.

THE FAT MAN--More than that. We get some that never do get written. Take that one of Ibsen's now, ”Merry Christmas”--

THE SICK MAN (_fretfully_)--Ibsen?

THE FAT MAN--Yes, it's a beautiful, sentimental little fairy story with a ghost for the hero. Ibsen just thought about it and never had the nerve to go through with it. He was scared people would kid him, but thinking things makes them so with us.

THE SICK MAN--Then I'd think a sixty-six round Van Cortlandt for myself.

THE FAT MAN--You could do that. But why Van Cortlandt? We've got much better greens on our course. It's a beauty. Seven thousand yards long and I've made it in fifty-four.

THE SICK MAN (_suspiciously_)--Did you hole out on every green or just estimate?

THE FAT MAN (_stiffly_)--The score is duly attested. I might add that it was possible because I drove more than four hundred yards on nine of the eighteen holes.

THE SICK MAN--More than four hundred yards? How did you do that?

THE FAT MAN--It must have been the climate, or (_thoughtfully_) it may be because I wanted so much to drive over four hundred yards on those holes.

THE SICK MAN (_with just a shade of scorn_)--So that's the trick. I guess n.o.body'd ever beat me on that course; I'd just want the ball in the hole in one every time.

THE FAT MAN (in gentle reproof)--No, you wouldn't. Where you and I are going pretty soon we're all true sportsmen and n.o.body there would take an unfair advantage of an opponent.

THE SICK MAN--Before I go I want to know something. There's a fellow in 125th Street's been awful decent to me. Is there any coming back to see people here? (_A pause_.)

THE FAT MAN--I can't explain to you yet, but it's difficult to arrange that. Still, I wouldn't say that there never were any slumming parties from beyond the grave.

THE SICK MAN (_s.h.i.+vering_)--The grave! I'd forgotten about that.

THE FAT MAN--Oh, you won't go there, and, what's more, you won't be at the funeral, either. I wish I could keep away from them. I hate funerals. They make me mad. You know, they say ”Oh, Death, where is thy sting?” just as if they had a pretty good hunch I had one around me some place after all. And you know that other--”My friends, this is not a sad occasion,” but they don't mean it. They keep it sad. They simply won't learn any better. I suppose they'd be a little surprised to know that you were sitting watching Radbourne pitch to Ed. Delehanty with the bases full and three b.a.l.l.s and two strikes called. Two runs to win and one to tie.

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