As the curtain rises, Dr. Palely is apprehended walking slowly in a circle within a bare, white-washed room. In the center of the circle upon a swivel chair sits a Wistful Youth. In his mouth is firmly embedded a large wooden bath thermometer. After a lapse of about three minutes Dr. Palely speaks.

Dr. Palely. Where does it hurt most?

Wistful Youth. Ummbgysh.

Immediately, with the acute perception of the medical profession, Dr. Palely grasps the situation and the thermometer.

Dr. P. Now you may speak freely.

W. Y. Well, Doc, it's just like I'm telling you--

At this point, Dr. Palely, with a catlike spring, bounds from the corner where he has been mixing his iodine and argyrol cocktall.

Dr. P. Here, you had better drink this. Now you had better undress.

W. Y. Why, Doctor!

Dr. P. Yes, I mean it. How do you expect me to examine your throat?

W. Y. But

Dr. P. Now, please, that other trouser leg.

W. Y. But Doctor, all I want is to he signed off.

Dr. P. My Secretary will see to that, if your condition warrants it.

W. Y. But Doctor, I'm not in condition . . .

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.

W. Y. Oh, but a myth is as good as a mile.

Dr. P. (calling). Mith Thmith, the boy ith all dressed now. You may come in, and bring in that box from the table.

As Miss Smith enters, the Wistful Youth takes one look, and then concentrates on the box.

W. Y. What's in that box?

Dr. P. It's a long tale: I have quite a few friends, but in this trade one makes a lot of enemies.

Miss Smith makes a precipitate exit. An adolescent grin is scarcely concealed by Dr. Palely's beard.

Dr. P. It wasnt meant for her ear, anyway.

W. Y. Thanks very much, Doctor, for signing me off. Look me up when you come to Joliet.

Dr. P. Thanks, but I doubt if I shall get South this winter.

The Wistful Youth exits to slow music. The Memorial Hall clock strikes nine-thirty, which it never does in real life, but this is, after all, only a fairy tale.

Dr. P. (advancing into the waiting room). This is Station OGOD signing off. You're next!

(Curtain)