Well, Callidemides, how did you die? I used to be a parasite of Dinias, and choked myself to death by eating too much, as you know; for you were there when I died.

Yes, I was there, Zenophantus. But my death was a strange one. I think you know Ptoeodorus, the old man?

The rich man with no children? I knew you were often with him.

I was always most attentive to him, because he promised I would benefit by his death. But since the matter was taking an unconscionable time, and he was living to be older than Tithonus, I found a short cut to the inheritance. I bought poison, and persuaded his butler, next time he asked for wine—he’s a pretty heavy drinker, you know—to have the poison ready in the cup, and give it to him. I promised him his freedom, if he did it.

Well, what happened? Your story looks like being a strange one.

When we’d come in after our bath, the lad had two cups ready, one with the poison for Ptoeodorus, and the other for me, but somehow he made a mistake, giving me the poison, and Ptoeodorus the harmless cup. A moment later, while he was still drinking, I was lying my full length on the floor, and the wrong man was dead. Why do you find it amusing, Zenophantus? You oughtn’t to laugh at a friend.

Well, it was a droll thing to happen. But what did the old man do?

At first he was a little put out by the suddenness of it all, but then he understood what had happened, I suppose, and laughed himself to see what his butler had done.

But you oughtn’t to have taken that short cut; you’d have been surer of getting him here by the highway, even if he was a little slow in coming.