“Yes,” Cal answered, speaking slowly after his habit, “the thing is thoroughly impregnated with the flavor and odor of the allium sativum, and I was just revolving—”
“What’s that, Cal?” asked Larry, interrupting.
“What’s what?”
“Why, allium something or other—the thing you mentioned.”
“Oh, you mean allium sativum? Why, that is the botanical name of the cultivated garlic plant, you ignoramus.”
“Well, how did you come to know that? You never studied botany.”
“No, of course not. I’ll put myself to the trouble of explaining a matter which would be obvious enough to you if you gave it proper thought. I found the term in the dictionary a month or so ago when you and I had some discussion as to the relationship between the garlic and the onion. I may have been positive in such assertions as I found it necessary to make in maintaining my side of the argument; doubtless I was so; but I was not sufficiently confident of the soundness of my views to make an open appeal to the dictionary. I consulted it secretly, surreptitiously, meaning to fling it at your head if I found that it sustained my contentions. As I found that it was strongly prejudiced on your side, I refrained from dragging it into the discussion. But I learned from it that garlic is allium sativum, and I made up my mind to floor you with that morsel of erudition at the first opportunity. This is it.”
“This is what?”
“Why, the first opportunity, to be sure. I’m glad it came now instead of at some other time.”
“Why, Cal?”