[CHAPTER XIV]
ONIONS!
They went to the movies that evening, a jovial, noisy “gang” of nearly a dozen that included the “Three Guardsmen,” Willard, Don Harris, Stacey Ross, Cal Grainger and several more. Unfortunately, the picture lacked action to a lamentable degree, being largely concerned with the doings of a few ladies and gentlemen who when at home, which was infrequent, lived in large white marble palaces in Westchester County, New York. At least, the titles placed the scene of the story in Westchester County, but Martin expressed incredulity, asserting that he had never seen palmettoes and cocoanut palms growing in that locality in such profusion. Jack Macon, however, was of the opinion that “anyone as rich as those guys could have their lawns trimmed with palms even if they lived at the North Pole!” The hero was a strapping gentleman with a broad, flat face, large, limpid eyes and a very brief mustache. He dressed immaculately on all occasions, which, since he, like everyone else, was forever “weekending” somewhere, must have caused him a great deal of thought and care. Of course, he had a Japanese valet at his beck and call, and that probably helped. Don Harris declared that when he became wealthy he would have a valet just like the one in the picture. “Why,” he marveled, “that fellow doesn’t even have to go to the telephone. The valet pulls the thing out by the roots and brings it to him wherever he is! That’s what I call service!”
Paul Nichols, who had played center all through the afternoon’s game and who, consequently, was rather tired, went sound asleep somewhere about the third reel and snored loudly until the final “fade-out,” to the amusement of his companions and the audience in general. Martin expressed the fear, loudly enough to be heard by Bob, several seats distant, that Nichols had contracted the sleeping sickness from “one of our number.” The comedy that followed the big picture provided a few “fine moments,” but, on the whole, the party considered that they had wasted the evening. Nichols was aroused with difficulty and led, in a comatose condition, up the aisle and into the street where the brisk October breeze that was hurrying and scurrying through the little town awakened him more thoroughly. Having missed most of the entertainment, Nichols insisted on partaking of food and drink and, being in funds this evening, invited the party to visit the lunch-cart. This vividly painted institution stood at night in the square at the other side of town, a matter of twelve blocks in distance, but, as Nichols pointed out, the night was still young. So they set out, decorously joyous, along West Street, “window shopping” as they went, and turned down Meadow Street and finally reached the Square and hailed the crimson and blue windows of the “Owl Night Lunch” with shouts of approval that won them the fleeting interest of the single blue-coated guardian of the law on duty there. Fortunately, since their numbers were many, the lunch-cart held but a solitary patron, a car conductor indulging in the delicacy referred to on the wall as “Tonight’s Special: Pork Chop and Fried Onions, 30c.” The viands had diffused a perceptible fragrance through the establishment, but no one voiced criticism save Martin. Martin halted at the doorway and registered suspicion followed by disgust.
“What’s the matter?” asked Bob, behind him. “Go on in!”
“Onions!” said Martin in pained tones.
“What of it?”
“I can’t stand ’em. Gee, the place is full of ’em!”