IT is evening in the home of Peter J. Cottontail. The scene is a
conventional parlor of a rabbit family of the upper middle class. About
the room there is the sort of furniture a well-to-do rabbit would have,
and on the shelves the books you would naturally expect. _Leaves of
Grass_ is there, of course; possibly _Cabbages and Kings_, and perhaps a
volume or two of _The Winning of the West_, with a congratulatory
inscription from the author. The walls have one or two good prints of
hunting scenes and an excellent lithographic likeness of Thomas Malthus,
but most of the space is given over to photographs of the family.
In the center of the room is a small square table, the surface of which
is covered with figures ranged in curious patterns such as 2 x 5 = 10,
and even so radical an arrangement as 7 x 8 = 56. At the rise of the
curtain Peter J. Cottontail is discovered seated in an easy chair
reading the current edition of _The New York Evening Post_. He is
middle-aged and wears somewhat ill fitting brown fur, tinged with gray,
and horn-rimmed spectacles. He looks a little like Lloyd George. As a
matter of fact, his grandfather was Welsh. The actor should convey to
the audience by means of pantomime that he has made more than a thousand
dollars that afternoon by selling Amalgamated Cabbage short, and that
there will be a tidy surplus for himself even after he has fulfilled his
promise to make up the deficit incurred by the charity hop of the Bone
Dry Prohibition Union. Now and again he smiles and pats his stomach
complacently. It is essential that the actor should indicate beyond the
peradventure of a doubt that Peter J. Cottontail has never touched
spirituous or malt liquors or anything containing more than two per cent
of alcohol per fluid ounce.
As P. J. Cottontail peruses his paper the ceiling of the room is
suddenly plucked aside and two hands are thrust into the parlor. One of
the hands seizes Mr. Cottontail, and the other hand, which holds a
hypodermic needle, stabs the helpless householder and injects into his
veins the contents of the needle. It is a fluid gray and forbidding.
There is no sound unless the actor who plays Cottontail chooses to
squeak just once.
Here the curtain descends. It rises again almost immediately, but five
days are supposed to have elapsed. Mr. Cottontail is again seated in the
center of the room, and he is again reading _The Evening Post_. The
property man should take pains to see that the paper shall be dated five
days later than the one used in the prologue. It might also be well to
change the headline from "Submarine Crisis Acute" to "Submarine Crisis
Still Acute." It is also to be noted that on this occasion Mr.
Cottontail has removed his right shoe in favor of a large, roomy
slipper. On the opposite side of the table sits Mrs. Cottontail. She is
middle-aged but comely. A strong-minded female, one would say, with a
will of her own, but rather in awe of the ability and more particularly
the virtue of Mr. Cottontail. Yet Mr. Cottontail is evidently in ill
humor this evening. He takes no pleasure in his paper, but fidgets
uneasily. At last he speaks with great irritation.
MR. COTTONTAIL--Is that doctor ever coming?
MRS. COTTONTAIL--I left word at Doctor Cony's house that you were in a
good deal of pain, and that he should come around the minute he got
home. (_The door bell rings_.) Here he is now. I'll send him up. (_She
goes out the door, and a few moments later there enters Dr. Charles
Cony. He is a distinguished and forceful physician, but a meager little
body for all that. He carries a black bag_.)
DR. CONY (_removing his gloves and opening the bag_)--Sorry I couldn't
get here any sooner, but I've been on the go all day. An obstetrician
gets mighty little rest hereabouts, I can tell you. Well, now, Mr.
Cottontail, what can I do for you? What seems to be the trouble?
COTTONTAIL (_pointing to the open door, and lifting one finger to his
mouth_)--Shush!
DR. CONY--Really! (_The physician crosses the room in one hop and closes
the door_.)
COTTONTAIL--The pain's in my foot. My big toe, I think, but that's not
what worries me--
DR. CONY (_breaking in_)--Pains worse at night than it does during the
daytime, doesn't it? Throbs a bit right now, hey?
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?
COTTONTAIL (_a little proudly_)--It was quite a high hat.
DR. CONY--Yes, it would be. What color?
COTTONTAIL--Black and shiny.
DR. CONY--That seems normal enough. I'm afraid there's nothing
significant there. (_Anxiously_.) No fixed delusions? You don't think
you're Napoleon or the White Rabbit or anything like that, do you? Do
you feel like growling or biting anybody?
COTTONTAIL--Of course not. There's nothing the matter with my brain.
DR. CONY--Perhaps you went to sleep and dreamed it all.
COTTONTAIL--No, I distinctly saw the ceiling open and I felt the stab
very sharply. I couldn't possibly have been asleep. I was reading a most
interesting dramatic review in _The Evening Post_.
DR. CONY--But you weren't stabbed in the big toe, now, were you?
COTTONTAIL--Well, no.
DR. CONY--And you will admit that the ceiling's just the same as it ever
was?
COTTONTAIL--It looks the same from here. I haven't called any workmen in
yet to examine it.
DR. CONY--Take my advice and don't. Just let's keep the matter between
ourselves and forget it. I'm afraid you've been working too hard. Drop
your business. Do a little light reading, and after a bit maybe I'd like
to have you go to a show. Something with songs and bunny-hugging and
jokes and chorus girls. None of this birth control stuff. I don't see
how any self-respecting rabbit could go to a play like the one I saw
last night. (_He goes to his instrument case and produces a
stethoscope_.)
DR. CONY--Have you had your heart examined lately?
COTTONTAIL (_visibly nervous_)--No.
DR. CONY--Any shortness of breath or palpitation?
COTTONTAIL--I don't think so.
DR. CONY--If that's a vest you have on, take it off. There, now. (_He
stands in front of Cottontail with his stethoscope poised in the air.
Cottontail is trembling. Dr. Cony allows the hand holding the
stethoscope to drop to his side and remarks provocatively_), I'll bet
you Maranville doesn't hit .250 this season.
COTTONTAIL (_amazed_)--Really, sir, I never bet. No, never. I don't know
what you are talking about, anyway.
DR. CONY--That's all right, that's all right. Don't agitate yourself.
Just a little professional trick. I wanted to calm you down. Now (_he
makes a hurried examination_), Mr. Cottontail, I don't want you to run.
I don't want you to climb stairs. Avoid excitement and don't butter your
parsnips. Fine words are just as good, no matter what anybody may tell
you, and they don't create fatty tissue. Of course, you've got to have
some exercise. You might play a little golf. Say, about three holes a
day.
COTTONTAIL (_sadly_)--Three holes?
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.
Dr. Cony--In all my twenty-five years of professional experience I've
never made an incorrect diagnosis. It is gout.
COTTONTAIL--But I'm president of the Bone Dry Prohibition Union.
Dr. Cony--The more shame to you, sir.
COTTONTAIL--What shall I do?
DR. CONY--Obey my instructions implicitly. A good many doctors will tell
you that they can't cure gout. Undoubtedly they are right. They can't.
But I can. Only you simply must stop drinking. Cutting down and tapering
off to ten or twelve drinks a day won't do. You must stop absolutely. No
liquor at all. Do you understand? Not a drop, sir.
COTTONTAIL (_his nose violently palpitating with emotion_)--I never took
a drink in my life. I'm president of the Bone Dry Prohibition Union. I
was just sitting quietly reading _The Evening Post_--
DR. CONY--Save that story for your bone-dry friends. I have nothing to
do with your past life. I'm not judging you. It's nature that says the
alcoholic must pay and pay and pay. I'm only concerned now with the
present and the future, and the present is that you're suffering from
alcoholism manifested in gout, and the future is that you'll die if you
don't stop drinking.
COTTONTAIL--I tell you I promised my Sunday school teacher when I was a
boy that I would always be a Little Light Bearer, and that I would never
take a drink if I lived to be a hundred.
DR. CONY--Don't worry, you won't live that long, and don't take on so.
You're not the first one that's had his fun and then been dragged up by
the heels for it. Cheer up. Remember the good times that are gone. Life
can't be all carrots, you know.
COTTONTAIL--But I never had any good times.
DR. CONY--Oh, yes, you did, I'll warrant you. There must have been many
merry nights as the bottle passed around the table. (_With evident
gusto_) Maybe there was a rousing song--"When Leeks Are Young in
Springtime"--or something like that, and I wouldn't be surprised if now
and again there was some fluffy little miss to sing soprano to your
bass. Youth! Youth! To be young, a rabbit and stewed. (_Quoting
reminiscently_) "A leaf of lettuce underneath the bough." After all,
salad days are the best days. I never meet an old rabbit with gout but I
take off my hat and say, "Sir, you have lived."
COTTONTAIL (_wildly_)--It's not true. I never lived like that. I never
took a drink in my life. You can ask anybody. Nobody ever saw me take a
drink.
DR. CONY--That's bad. You solitary drunkards are always the hardest to
handle. But you've simply got to stop. You must quit drinking or die,
that's all there is to it.
COTTONTAIL--This is terrible. It must have been that poisoned sword. I
tell you, I was just sitting here quietly, reading _The Evening Post_--
DR. CONY--My dear sir, please rid yourself right away of the alcoholic's
habit of confusing cause and effect. He thinks he's sick because green
elephants are walking on him, while, as a matter of fact, green
elephants are walking on him because he's sick. It's terribly simple,
when you stop to figure it out.
COTTONTAIL--You don't think I saw any pink monster come through the
ceiling?
DR. CONY--On the contrary, I'm sure you did. But the point is, you
mustn't see him again, and the only way to avoid seeing him is to quit
drinking. Your fun's done. Now, be a good patient and tell me you'll
stop drinking--