Martin looked from Joe to Bob suspiciously, but they were so evidently in earnest that he asked: “What happened to this fellow?”
“Why, he ate watercress and was poisoned. It got into his blood, you know, and the only way they could save his life was by transfusion.”
“What’s that? You mean pumping someone else’s blood into him?”
“Sure! That’s the only thing possible in extreme cases.”
Martin hurriedly produced his bottle and popped a soda-mint into his mouth. “Well, I guess onions wouldn’t do that to a fellow,” he said with a confidence that didn’t quite ring true. “Would you think so, Joe?”
“Search me,” replied Joe comfortingly. “I never heard of onion poisoning before.”
“Nor I,” said Bob troubledly. “I guess it’s a pretty rare disease, and maybe the doctors don’t understand it yet. Guess it’s sort of like sleeping sickness,” he added blandly.
Martin shot a hostile and wary look at him, but Bob only smiled sympathetically and reached out his hand. “Let’s see one of those tablets, Mart,” he requested. “I’ve got a sort of a heavy feeling myself tonight.”
“You don’t notice the taste of onions, do you?” asked Martin hopefully as he tossed the bottle across the table.
“N—no, not exactly. More a sort of gone sensation. I guess it was the baked potato I ate.” He took some time to get a tablet out, under cover of the table; so long that Martin said impatiently: “Shake the bottle. They’re probably stuck.”