DR. CONY—Yes, that will be enough.
COTTONTAIL (musing)—It's a little tough, doctor. I can still remember the day I won my "H" at dear old Hassenpfeffer in the 'cross-country run. I had the lungs and the legs then. Even now I can feel the wind on my face as I came across the meadow and up that last, long hill. They were cheering for me to come on. I can tell you I just leaped along. It was nothing at all for me. If I'd sprinted just a bit sooner I could have been first in a hop. Anyhow, I was second. There was nobody ahead of me but the Tortoise. (Cheerlessly) Three holes of golf a day!
DR. CONY—Come, come, sir, be a rabbit. There's no cheating nature, you know. You had your fun, and now you must pay.
COTTONTAIL—What's the matter with me?
DR. CONY—Plain, old-fashioned gout.
COTTONTAIL—What does that come from?
DR. CONY (with evident relish)—From too much ale or porter or claret or burgundy or champagne or sherry or Rhine Wine or Clover Clubs or Piper Heidsieck or brandy or Bronxes or absinthe or stingers, but the worst of all and the best of all is port wine.
COTTONTAIL (horrified)—You mean it comes from drinking?
Dr. Cony—In all my twenty-five years of professional practice I have never known a case of gout without antecedent alcoholism.
COTTONTAIL (much relieved)—Well, then, it can't be gout. I've never taken a drink in my life.