“What are? Full of what?” asked Joe.
“The tablets.” Martin opened his eyes slowly, and gazed in horror at the questioner. “They’re full of—of onion! Oh, gee!”
“Nonsense,” said Bob cheerfully. “How could they be? Let’s see them.” Martin weakly brought them forth from his pocket and held them out with averted head. Bob removed the lid and held the bottle to his nose. “I don’t smell anything,” he said. “Do you, Brand?”
“Not a thing,” replied Willard gravely. “You try, Joe.”
“Well, there’s a faint—ah—medicinal odor apparent,” said Joe judicially, “but as for onions—”
“Let me smell,” demanded Martin. He took the bottle and put it to his nostrils. Then it went flying across the room and its contents rolled merrily about the floor. “It is!” he yelled. “They are! Can’t you fellows smell it?”
“Look here, Martin,” responded Joe sternly. “You’d better pull yourself together, old man. It won’t do to let this—this hallucination go too far. Better get into bed and try to forget about onions. Maybe a good night’s rest is what you need. In the morning I’d have a talk with the doctor. Of course your trouble may not be serious, Mart. I dare say if you take it in time you can be cured. But I’d feel a whole lot easier if you saw a doctor, old man.”
Martin’s expression of glowering distaste changed slightly. He stared in growing fascination at Bob.
“It might be,” continued the latter kindly, “that you’ve been bitten by the Diptera onionensis, otherwise known as the onion-fly. Of course, it isn’t probable, but you never can tell, Mart. There’s the tse-tse fly, now. You wouldn’t expect to find that around here, but I’ve been told that it is quite common. Then why not the onion-fly?”
Martin’s gaze was fixed on Bob and Martin’s mouth was slowly dropping open. He was like one who is seeing a Great Light and who is still too dazed by its refulgence for speech. Bob smiled gently and continued, keeping, however, perhaps unintentionally, the table between him and Martin.