"Hullo, Foulkes," Darwen said, cheerily. "How did you sleep to-day?"
Foulkes was gruff and hearty. "I can sleep any time," he said.
"Lucky dog! wish I could. My landlady recommended me to eat onions. Jolly good things, but they burn my mouth out."
Foulkes laughed, a great guffaw.
Darwen laughed too. "I suppose," he said, "that they don't have any effect on you. I daresay you could eat 'em like apples." He pulled an onion from his pocket and threw it up and caught it. "I've heard of chaps with very strong heads being able to do it," he remarked, gazing at the onion in his hand tentatively. "I couldn't tackle 'em like that. No more could you, Foulkes."
Foulkes stretched out a big, black paw. "Give me ta onion," he said.
Darwen handed it over. "I bet you'll soon chuck it."
They stood and watched. Carstairs very solemn, Darwen with just a flicker of a smile of satisfaction, as the big stoker ate the best part of a raw onion till the tears ran down his cheeks and he almost gasped for breath. Darwen kept him at it. "That's beaten you, Foulkes, you can't go on with it." But he did, and finished it.
As they turned to the engine room Darwen said: "How's that for an experiment."
"I call it underhand, unsporting."