“It’s onions!” yelled Glutts. “It’s chopped-up onions!”
“Gee, what a smell!” came from another cadet.
“Say, who opened up the onion factory?”
“Somebody shut the cover down before we faint!”
Such were some of the cries that arose as the odor of the chopped-up onions floated out on the morning air. In the meanwhile Werner and Glutts stood there in helpless fashion, holding their mess kits at arm’s length. Both were red-eyed, and looked as if they were weeping copiously.
“Say, if this is a joke, it’s a mighty poor one!” stormed the cook, stepping forward with a big ladle in his hand. “You chase yourselves and get out of here!” And he flourished the ladle so threateningly at the pair that Werner and Glutts ran as if for their lives. They did not look where they were going, and so dashed headlong into Professor Grawson, who was coming forward to get his own breakfast, for he had decided to rough it with the students.
“Here, here! What is this?” exclaimed the professor, as some of the chopped-up onions flew over his clothing. “My, what an awful smell! What are you young gentlemen eating?”
“We’re not eatin’ this stuff!” exclaimed Glutts. “Somebody played a joke on us. They filled our mess kits with onions.”
“Ah, I see.” Professor Grawson held his nose and stepped back several feet. “Please do not come any closer. Raw onions are very healthful, so I understand, but I never cared for them.”
“We don’t want ’em either. I hate ’em!” roared Werner. “Come on—let’s go over to the water tank and wash up,” he added to his crony; and then rushed away.