THE FAT MAN (stiffly)—The score is duly attested. I might add that it was possible because I drove more than four hundred yards on nine of the eighteen holes.
THE SICK MAN—More than four hundred yards? How did you do that?
THE FAT MAN—It must have been the climate, or (thoughtfully) it may be because I wanted so much to drive over four hundred yards on those holes.
THE SICK MAN (with just a shade of scorn)—So that's the trick. I guess nobody'd ever beat me on that course; I'd just want the ball in the hole in one every time.
THE FAT MAN (in gentle reproof)—No, you wouldn't. Where you and I are going pretty soon we're all true sportsmen and nobody there would take an unfair advantage of an opponent.
THE SICK MAN—Before I go I want to know something. There's a fellow in 125th Street's been awful decent to me. Is there any coming back to see people here? (A pause.)
THE FAT MAN—I can't explain to you yet, but it's difficult to arrange that. Still, I wouldn't say that there never were any slumming parties from beyond the grave.
THE SICK MAN (shivering)—The grave! I'd forgotten about that.
THE FAT MAN—Oh, you won't go there, and, what's more, you won't be at the funeral, either. I wish I could keep away from them. I hate funerals. They make me mad. You know, they say "Oh, Death, where is thy sting?" just as if they had a pretty good hunch I had one around me some place after all. And you know that other—"My friends, this is not a sad occasion," but they don't mean it. They keep it sad. They simply won't learn any better. I suppose they'd be a little surprised to know that you were sitting watching Radbourne pitch to Ed. Delehanty with the bases full and three balls and two strikes called. Two runs to win and one to tie.
THE SICK MAN—Will Radbourne pitch?