“Well, you’d better run now,” said Mr. Opp, who resented such insight; “but, see here, what’s that onion for?”
“To ’sorb disease,” said the youth, with the air of one who is promulgating some advanced theory in therapeutics; “hit ketches it ’stid of you. My pappy weared a’ onion fer put-near a whole year, an’ hit ’sorbed all de diseases whut [p142] was hangin’ round, an’ nary a one never teched him. An’ one day my pappy he got hongry, an’ he et dat dere onion, an’ whut you reckon? He up an’ died!”
“Well, you go ’long now,” said Mr. Opp, “and tell Mrs. Gusty just exactly verbatim what I told you. What did you say was your name?”
“Val,” said the boy.
Mr. Opp managed to slip a nickel into the dirty little hand without Nick’s seeing him. Nick was rather firm about these things, and disapproved heartily of Mr. Opp’s indiscriminate charities.
“Gimme nudder one an’ I’ll tell you de rest ob it,” whispered Val on the door-step.
Mr. Opp complied.
“Valentine Day Johnson,” he announced with pride; then pocketing his prize, he vanished around the corner of the house, forgetting his office of plenipotentiary in his sudden accession of wealth.
Once more peace settled on the office, and Mr. Opp was engrossed in an article [p143] on “The Greatest Petroleum Proposition South of the Mason and Dixon Line,” when an ominous, wheezing cough announced the arrival of Mr. Tucker. This was an unexpected catastrophe, for Mr. Tucker’s day for spending the morning at the office was Saturday, when he came in to pay for his paper. It seemed rather an unkind trick of Fate’s that he should have been permitted to arrive a day too soon.
The old gentleman drew up a chair to the stove, then deliberately removed his overcoat and gloves.