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W. C. Fields
"What in the hell are you doing, you old goat?" asked Grady when he came in. (The relationship between the comedian and his agent was distinguished by an uninterrupted and rather abrasive exchange of billingsgate.)
"I've sprained my back," said Fields, regarding Grady steadily with his little frosty blue eyes. "The doctor's coming. Take a seat over in the corner."
The doctor arrived a few minutes later and conducted a search for symptoms.
"Where does it hurt?" he said.
"All over," Fields told him.
"How'd it happen?"
"I was juggling some chairs," Fields said.
The doctor took his temperature again and went over his back with a small rubber hammer. Then he said, "I'll have to come back at five o'clock. I need more equipment."
"When do the payments start?"
"See you around five," the doctor said, and left.
Fields and Grady had been playing handball in their living room for several days, for a dollar a game, and Fields was twelve dollars ahead. As soon as the doctor left, he arose and suggested that they continue. They played steadily until five o'clock, when Fields quit and got back in bed. He just made it. The doctor turned up and took his temperature again. By now, because of the exertion — Grady had been winning — Fields was overheated and sweaty.
"A singular case," the doctor said, reading the thermometer. "Your temperature seems to have gone up."
"Complete disability," Fields agreed, with a noisy rattle in his voice.
Greatly mystified, the doctor went over the patient's back with several additional instruments. He said he was having trouble
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