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 sunshine 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 pass, a G string, a large lump of gold, a receipted bill, two theater tickets and a white mass 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. THE SICK MAN--What nonsense! If you really were I'd be frightened. I'd have cold shivers up and down my spine. My hair would stand on end like the fretful porcupine. I'm not afraid of you. Why, when Sadie Bluchblauer starts to argue about the war she scares me more than you do. THE FAT MAN (_very much relieved and visibly brighter_)--That's fine. I'm glad you're not scared. Now we can sit down and talk things over like friends. THE SICK MAN--I don't mind talking, but remember I know you're not Death. You're just some trick my hot head's playing on me. Don't get the idea you're putting anything over. THE FAT MAN--But what makes you so sure I'm not Death? THE SICK MAN--Go on! Where's your black cloak? Where's your sickle? Where's your skeleton? Why don't you rattle when you walk? THE FAT MAN (_horrified and distressed_)--Why should I rattle? What do I want with a black overcoat or a skeleton? I'm not fooling you. I'm Death, all right. THE SICK MAN--Don't tell me that. I've seen Death a thousand times in the war cartoons. And I've seen him on the stage--Maeterlinck, you know, with green lights and moaning, and that Russian fellow, Andreyeff, with no light at all, and hollering. And I've seen other plays with Death--lots of them. I'm one of the scene shifters with the Washington Square Players. This isn't regular, at all. There's more light in here right now than any day since I've been sick.