Pinocchio
Pinocchio

Foulfellow: [catches Pinocchio with his cane] Well, well, Pinocchio! What's your rush?
Pinocchio: I gotta beat Jiminy home - Oh, hello.
Foulfellow: Well, how's the great actor?
Pinocchio: I don't want to be an actor; Stromboli was terrible!
Foulfellow: He was?

Pinocchio: Yes, he locked me in a bird cage.
Foulfellow: He did?
Pinocchio: Uh-huh, but I learned my lesson, I'm going...
Foulfellow: Oh, you poor, poor boy, you must be a nervous wreck. That's it! You are a nervous wreck. Ahem, we must diagnose this case at once, ahem. Quick, Doctor, your notebook.

[Gideon gets out a notebook and pretends to jot down notes as Foulfellow examines Pinocchio]
Foulfellow: Bless my soul! Hmm... mm-hmm... My my. Just as I thought: A slight touch of monetary complications with bucolic semi-lunar contraptions of the flying trapezius. Mm-hmm. Say "hippopotamus".
Pinocchio: Hi-ho-ha-amus.

Foulfellow: I knew it! Compound transmission of the pandemonium with percussion of spasmodic frantic disintegration. Close your eyes! What do you see?
Pinocchio: Nothing.
Foulfellow: Open them! Now what do you see?
[Foulfellow holds his spotted handkerchief in front of Pinocchio's eyes]
Pinocchio:

Spots.
Foulfellow: Aha! Now, that heart. Oh, my goodness!
Foulfellow: [Foulfellow rattles his cane on a nearby windowsill as he pretends to listen to Pinocchio's heartbeat] Palpitating syncopation of the killer diller with a wicky-wacky stamping of the floyjoy. Quick, Doctor, that report. Ohh, this makes it perfectly clear. My boy, you are allergic.


Pinocchio: Allergic?
Foulfellow: Yes, and there is only one cure: a vacation on Pleasure Island.