Doctor: How, for what?
Harlequin: If I actually die to-day, then what’s the use of your art that can’t save me from death? And if I survive, then again it’s no use if it knows less than an ignorant fortune-teller.
Doctor: I didn’t come here to talk philosophy.
Harlequin: I know why you came.
Doctor: No insinuations, if you please.
Harlequin: He calls that insinuations. (Pulling out a purse from under his pillow.) Here’s what you came for. (Goes to the door and holds out the money.)
Doctor (reaching out) : Thank you. (Harlequin laughs, and runs out at one side and in at the other, the Doctor after him. He does this three times, and then gives the Doctor the money.)
Harlequin: What do you say to my playfulness?
Doctor: You know, sir—here’s the best of luck in the other world—it’s the first time I’ve seen a dying man like you. What’s that noise you’re making?
Harlequin: That’s my heart beating. (Noise of a steam-engine.)
Doctor: And that?
Harlequin: My breathing.
