COTTONTAIL—Yes, it does, but that isn't the trouble.
DR. CONY—That's trouble enough. I'll try to have you loping around again in a month or so.
COTTONTAIL—But there's more than the pain. It's the worry. I haven't told a soul. I thought at first it might be a nightmare.
DR. CONY—Dreams, eh? Very significant, sometimes, but we'll get to them later.
COTTONTAIL—But I'm afraid it wasn't a dream.
DOCTOR—What wasn't a dream?
COTTONTAIL—Last Tuesday evening I was sitting in this room, quietly reading The Evening Post, when suddenly something tore the ceiling away, and down from above there came ten horrible pink tentacles and seized me in an iron grasp. Then something stabbed me with some sharp instrument. I was too frightened to move for several minutes, but when I looked up the ceiling was back in place as if nothing had touched it. I felt around for the wound, but the only thing I could find, was a tiny scratch that seemed so small I might have had it some time without noticing it. I couldn't be sure it was a wound. In fact, I tried to make myself believe that the whole thing was all a dream, until I was taken sick to-night. Now I'm afraid that the sword, or whatever it was that stabbed me, must have been poisoned.
DR. CONY (sharply)—Let me look at your tongue. (Cottontail complies.) Seems all right. Hold out your hands. Spread your fingers. (He studies the patient for a moment.) Nothing much the matter there. (Producing pen and paper.) If it was only March now I'd know what to say. Let's see what we can find out about hereditary influence. Father and mother living?
COTTONTAIL—I had no father or mother. I came out of a trick hat in a vaudeville act.
DR. CONY—That makes it a little more difficult, doesn't it? Do you happen to remember what sort of a hat?