"What are the chances of my recovering?" asked the bedridden man.
"One hundred percent," the physician reassured him. "Medical records show that nine out of ten die of the disease you have. Yours is the tenth case I've treated. Others all died. Statistics are statistics. You'll be fine soon enough."
Little Willie came home in a sad state. He had a black eye and numerous scratches and contusions, and his clothes were a sight. His mother was horrified at the spectacle presented by her darling. There were tears in her eyes as she addressed him rebukingly:
"Oh Willie, Willie! How often have I told you not to play with that naughty Peck boy!"
Little Willie regarded his mother with an expression of deepest disgust.
"Say, ma," he objected, "do I look as if I had been playing with anybody?"