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?