Dr. P. Well, anyway, you never told me what is the matter with you.

W. Y. That's what I came up here to find out.

Dr. P. My heavens, I don't know anything about medicine. I used to play Santa Claus in a department store.

W. Y. I don't want any medicine. I went to get signed off.

Dr. P. But wasn't I telling you about when I used to impersonate St. Nicholas?

W. Y. Hell, there ain't no Santa Claus.

Dr. P. I grew this beard just to play Santa Claus. It's detachable. Want a look?

W. Y. No, thanks; one nude man in the room is enough.

Dr. P. Have it your own way. By the way, how much do you weigh? Or am I in your way?

W. Y. Kerchoo! Kerchoo-choo!

Dr. P. My dear man, you've got a bad cough. I should suggest a few days in the Infirmary.

W. Y. Why, I haven't a thing to wear.

Dr. P. Oh, we always dress informally at the Infirmary.

The Wistful Youth makes a furtive and abortive effort to salvage his trousers. He is thwarted by a vicious tug at his ankle.

Dr. P. Is that your Achilles tendon? I always thought he was just a myth.