“You fellows make me weary,” retorted Martin. “I’ll bet you eat them yourselves! As I remarked hitherto, the onion is the favorite fruit of the mentally deficient! And you fellows talk like you never ate anything else!”
Stacey continued to expatiate on the merits of the onion, but Bob relapsed into silence. He had been visited by an idea and he was busy developing it all the rest of the way back to school. When he said good night to Martin later in front of Lykes there was an expression on his face that might have caused the other some uneasiness had he noticed it.
“It’s awfully funny,” remarked Martin after dinner the next day, “but I can still taste those onions, Brand.”
“What onions?” asked Willard.
“In that lunch-cart last night. Taste the smell of them, I mean. It’s just as though I’d eaten them myself. Gosh, I didn’t enjoy my dinner a bit, either. Everything seemed to smell of the beastly things!”
“We didn’t have onions at our table,” said Willard.
“Neither did we, but I’ll swear I could almost smell them! It’s queer, but I simply can’t stand the smell of onions. It almost makes me sick. I can go a little of it, of course, and I manage to eat soups and things like that that are flavored with onions, but I don’t like them.”
“Maybe there was onion in the gravy or something,” Willard suggested. But Martin shook his head.
“It isn’t that. I guess I got my lungs full of the smell last night. Funny thing is, though, that it seems almost as if I could taste them!”
“You’ll get over it,” Willard consoled. “Let’s go for a walk. Maybe the air will do you good.”