The Day the Roof Fell In

Well, Dr. Manning, I've done all a surgeon can for him. I mended his ankle, healed his back, straightened his arm, patched his scalp. But now he refuses to leave the hospital. He even refuses to get up out of bed.

He just lies there, staring at the ceiling, muttering strange words. A molly, sakrits, vapor vacuums, crawlspaces, and snakes. Snake. Wire snakes. That's why I called you Manning. Pete Bolton needs a psychoanalyst. claims he was hit by a boat while standing in a concrete driveway.

The CBS Radio Workshop dedicated to man's imagination, the theatre of the mind. Today is psychological examination of the man who forms the backbone of a $12 billion industry, the man in the grey flannel overalls, and account dedicated to those of you who do it yourself.

As my colleague Dr. Forster had promised, I found Pete Bolton lying flat in bed. The ambulance driver confirmed the fact that Pete claimed his physical injuries now healed, had arisen from a boat striking him.

So help me dock the nearest water for miles around was a fish pond in his back yard. Pete was a clean-cut looking man in his middle 30s. His smile of reading was pleasant, but he gripped the sides of his bed tightly as I walked over to him.

Mr. Bolton? That's right. I'm Dr. Manning. Dr. Forst has suggested that I come and talk with you. Yes? I, uh, want to talk to you about those, uh, snakes. Snakes? The wire ones. Oh. All those?

Well, you better watch out for those, Doc. Better so at house if yours right now. The house? Well, don't you own a house? One little hideaway, a hunting cabin someplace? Well, I do have a retreat for a few of my patients.