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COTTONTAIL (looking at him in amazement) – What do you say?

      COTTONTAIL (His muscles relax. His eyes stare stupidly. He speaks without sense or expression) —The Sun! The Sun! The Evening Sun!

      (He is quite mad.)

(Curtain.)

      Death Says It Isn't So

      THE scene is a sickroom. It is probably in a hospital, for the walls are plain and all the corners are eliminated in that peculiar circular construction which is supposed to annoy germs. The shades are down and the room is almost dark. A doctor who has been examining the sick man turns to go. The nurse at his side looks at him questioningly.

      THE DOCTOR (briskly) – I don't believe he'll last out the day. If he wakes or seems unusually restless, let me know. There's nothing to do.

      He goes out quietly, but quickly, for there is another man down at the end of the corridor who is almost as sick. The nurse potters about the room for a moment or two, arranging whatever things it is that nurses arrange. She exits l. c., or, in other words, goes out the door. There is just a short pause in the dark, quiet room shut out from all outside noises and most outside light. When the steam pipes are not clanking only the slow breathing of the man on the bed can be heard. Suddenly a strange thing happens.

      The door does not open or the windows, but there is unquestionably another man in the room. It couldn't have been the chimney, because there isn't any. Possibly it is an optical illusion, but the newcomer seems just a bit indistinct for a moment or so in the darkened room. Quickly he raises both the window shades, and in the rush of bright sunlight he is definite enough in appearance. Upon better acquaintance it becomes evident that it couldn't have been the chimney, even if there had been one. The visitor is undeniably bulky, although extraordinarily brisk in his movements. He has a trick which will develop later in the scene of blushing on the slightest provocation. At that his color is habitually high. But this round, red, little man, peculiarly enough, has thin white hands and long tapering fingers, like an artist or a newspaper cartoonist. Very possibly his touch would be lighter than that of the nurse herself. At any rate, it is evident that he walks much more quietly. This is strange, for he does not rise on his toes, but puts his feet squarely on the ground. They are large feet, shod in heavy hobnail boots. No one but a golfer or a day laborer would wear such shoes.

      The hands of the little, round, red man preclude the idea that he is a laborer. The impression that he is a golfer is heightened by the fact that he is dressed loudly in very bad taste. In fact, he wears a plaid vest of the sort which was brought over from Scotland in the days when clubs were called sticks. The man in the gaudy vest surveys the sunshine with great satisfaction. It reaches every corner of the room, or rather it would but for the fact that the corners have been turned into curves. A stray beam falls across the eyes of the sick man on the bed. He wakes, and, rubbing his eyes an instant, slowly sits up in bed and looks severely at the fat little man.

      THE SICK MAN (feebly, but vehemently) – No, you don't. I won't stand for any male nurse. I want Miss Bluchblauer.

      THE FAT MAN – I'm not a nurse, exactly.

      THE SICK MAN – Who are you?

      THE FAT MAN (cheerfully and in a matter of fact tone) – I'm Death.

      THE SICK MAN (sinking back on the bed) – That rotten fever's up again. I'm seeing things.

      THE FAT MAN (almost plaintively) – Don't you believe I'm Death? Honest, I am. I wouldn't fool you. (He fumbles in his pockets and produces in rapid succession a golf ball, a baseball pass, a G string, a large lump of gold, a receipted bill, two theater tickets and a white mass of sticky confection which looks as though it might be a combination of honey and something – milk, perhaps) – I've gone and left that card case again, but I'm Death, all right.

      THE SICK MAN – What nonsense! If you really were I'd be frightened. I'd have cold shivers up and down my spine. My hair would stand on end like the fretful porcupine. I'm not afraid of you. Why, when Sadie Bluchblauer starts to argue about the war she scares me more than you do.

      THE FAT MAN (very much relieved and visibly brighter) – That's fine. I'm glad you're not scared. Now we can sit down and talk things over like friends.

      THE SICK MAN – I don't mind talking, but remember I know you're not Death. You're just some trick my hot head's playing on me. Don't get the idea you're putting anything over.

      THE FAT MAN – But what makes you so sure I'm not Death?

      THE SICK MAN – Go on! Where's your black cloak? Where's your sickle? Where's your skeleton? Why don't you rattle when you walk?

      THE FAT MAN (horrified and distressed) – Why should I rattle? What do I want with a black overcoat or a skeleton? I'm not fooling you. I'm Death, all right.

      THE SICK MAN – Don't tell me that. I've seen Death a thousand times in the war cartoons. And I've seen him on the stage – Maeterlinck, you know, with green lights and moaning, and that Russian fellow, Andreyeff, with no light at all, and hollering. And I've seen other plays with Death – lots of them. I'm one of the scene shifters with the Washington Square Players. This isn't regular, at all. There's more light in here right now than any day since I've been sick.

      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

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