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lowed by martinis, if he could get them. Fowler was told that the comedian was under treatment and would not be able to receive callers until after the first of the year. "It was the first time I'd suspected how serious his condition really was," he says. Late into the night of Christmas Eve, Fields' room was full of doctors and nurses. Both Miss Monti and Miss Michael were there, waiting for the answer to what was plainly his severest crisis. After sixty-six years of the most damaging kind of abuse, his life stream was ebbing out. Shortly before midnight, Miss Monti took his hand and began calling to him. While she pleaded, he opened his eyes, and, noting the people in the room, put a finger to his lips and winked. A few minutes later, as bells over the city announced the arrival of Christmas morning, he suffered a violent hemorrhage of the stomach. The blood bubbled thickly out of his lips, he drew several long sighs, and lay still. The fellow in the bright nightgown, so often frustrated before, had finally come for W. C. Fields.
Christmas noon, Dave Chasen and Billy Grady were approaching Fields' cottage. The fact of his death had not yet been announced. They were dressed up in funny clothes; Grady had a couple of bottles and Chasen had a hamper of delicacies. At the gate, an undertaker and several assistants passed them carrying a basket. "Somebody dead?" asked Chasen, a little addled.
"Mr. Fields died early this morning," said the undertaker.
Chasen, a mild, gentle man, grew white and his legs started to buckle. Grady helped him to the ground, then uncorked one of the bottles and gave him a drink. He took a drink himself. They sat there half an hour or so, blowing their noses, swiping at their eyes, and finishing the bottle. They noticed at last that it was raining. "It's a rainy day," said Grady. "Bill would have liked that fine." Much relieved, they got up and went home.
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