THE FAT MAN--I always come in the light. Be a good fellow and believe me. You'll see I'm right later on. I wouldn't fool anybody. It's mean. THE SICK MAN (_laughing out loud_)--Mean! What's meaner than Death? You're not Death. You're as soft and smooth-talking as a press agent. Why, you could go on a picnic in that make-up. THE FAT MAN (_almost soberly_)--I've been on picnics. THE SICK MAN--You're open and above board. Death's a sneak. You've got a nice face. Yes; you've got a mighty nice face. You'd stop to help a bum in the street or a kid that was crying. THE FAT MAN--I have stopped for beggars and children. THE SICK MAN--There, you see; I told you. You're kind and considerate. Death's the cruellest thing in the world. THE FAT MAN (_very much agitated_)--Oh, please don't say that! It isn't true. I'm kind; that's my business. When things get too rotten I'm the only one that can help. They've got to have me. You should hear them sometimes before I come. I'm the one that takes them off battlefields and out of slums and all terribly tired people. I whisper a joke in their ears, and we go away, laughing. We always go away laughing. Everybody sees my joke, it's so good. THE SICK MAN--What's the joke? THE FAT MAN--I'll tell it to you later. Enter the Nurse. She almost runs into the Fat Man, but goes right past without paying any attention. It almost seems as if she cannot see him. She goes to the bedside of the patient. THE NURSE--So, you're awake. You feel any more comfortable? The Sick Man continues to stare at the Fat Man, but that worthy animated pantomime indicates that he shall say nothing of his being there. While this is on, the Nurse takes the patient's temperature. She looks at it, seems surprised, and then shakes the thermometer. THE SICK MAN (_eagerly_)--I suppose my temperature's way up again, hey? I've been seeing things this afternoon and talking to myself. THE NURSE--No; your temperature is almost normal. THE SICK MAN (_incredulously_)--Almost normal? THE NURSE--Yes; under a hundred. She goes out quickly and quietly. The Sick Man turns to his fat friend. THE SICK MAN--What do you make of that? Less than a hundred. That oughtn't to make me see things; do you think so? THE FAT MAN--Well, I'd just as soon not be called a thing. Up there I'm called good old Death. Some of the fellows call me Bill. Maybe that's because I'm always due. THE SICK MAN--Rats! Is that the joke you promised me? THE FAT MAN (_pained beyond measure_)--Oh, that was just a little unofficial joke. The joke's not like that. I didn't make up the real one. It wasn't made up at all. It's been growing for years and years. A whole lot of people have had a hand in fixing it up--Aristophanes and Chaucer and Shakespeare, and Mark Twain and Rabelais-- THE SICK MAN--Did that fellow Rabelais get in--up there?