Left Half Harmon

  CHAPTER XIV

  ONIONS!

  They went to the movies that evening, a jovial, noisy "gang" of nearlya dozen that included the "Three Guardsmen," Willard, Don Harris,Stacey Ross, Cal Grainger and several more. Unfortunately, the picturelacked action to a lamentable degree, being largely concerned withthe doings of a few ladies and gentlemen who when at home, which wasinfrequent, lived in large white marble palaces in Westchester County,New York. At least, the titles placed the scene of the story inWestchester County, but Martin expressed incredulity, asserting that hehad never seen palmettoes and cocoanut palms growing in that localityin such profusion. Jack Macon, however, was of the opinion that "anyoneas rich as those guys could have their lawns trimmed with palms even ifthey lived at the North Pole!" The hero was a strapping gentleman witha broad, flat face, large, limpid eyes and a very brief mustache. Hedressed immaculately on all occasions, which, since he, like everyoneelse, was forever "weekending" somewhere, must have caused him agreat deal of thought and care. Of course, he had a Japanese valet athis beck and call, and that probably helped. Don Harris declared thatwhen he became wealthy he would have a valet just like the one in thepicture. "Why," he marveled, "that fellow doesn't even have to go tothe telephone. The valet pulls the thing out by the roots and brings itto him wherever he is! That's what I call service!"

  Paul Nichols, who had played center all through the afternoon's gameand who, consequently, was rather tired, went sound asleep somewhereabout the third reel and snored loudly until the final "fade-out," tothe amusement of his companions and the audience in general. Martinexpressed the fear, loudly enough to be heard by Bob, several seatsdistant, that Nichols had contracted the sleeping sickness from "one ofour number." The comedy that followed the big picture provided a few"fine moments," but, on the whole, the party considered that they hadwasted the evening. Nichols was aroused with difficulty and led, in acomatose condition, up the aisle and into the street where the briskOctober breeze that was hurrying and scurrying through the little townawakened him more thoroughly. Having missed most of the entertainment,Nichols insisted on partaking of food and drink and, being in fundsthis evening, invited the party to visit the lunch-cart. This vividlypainted institution stood at night in the square at the other side oftown, a matter of twelve blocks in distance, but, as Nichols pointedout, the night was still young. So they set out, decorously joyous,along West Street, "window shopping" as they went, and turned downMeadow Street and finally reached the Square and hailed the crimsonand blue windows of the "Owl Night Lunch" with shouts of approval thatwon them the fleeting interest of the single blue-coated guardian ofthe law on duty there. Fortunately, since their numbers were many, thelunch-cart held but a solitary patron, a car conductor indulging in thedelicacy referred to on the wall as "Tonight's Special: Pork Chop andFried Onions, 30c." The viands had diffused a perceptible fragrancethrough the establishment, but no one voiced criticism save Martin.Martin halted at the doorway and registered suspicion followed bydisgust.

  "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!"

  "Well, you don't have to eat them," replied Bob comfortingly, whilethose behind him earnestly requested "gangway!" Martin allowed himselfto be shoved inside, but during the subsequent proceedings he wore hisnose in an elevated position and looked most unhappy, a circumstancethat interested Bob greatly for a reason not then apparent. Sandwichesand coffee constituted the menu served. Bob generously offered to buyMartin a chopped onion sandwich if he would eat it, which offer wasthanklessly, almost rudely, declined. That banquet cost Paul Nicholsmost of his cash in hand, but he settled the bill in an almost regalmanner; quite, as Martin commented, as though he lived amongst thepalms of Westchester!

  Going back, Willard walked with Joe and Jack Macon, and the talk wasmostly of the day's game. Joe was rather cynical and predicted disasterin the Kenly contest unless things got better soon. "We need beef onthe team," said Joe bitterly. "We've got plenty of fellows who knowfootball, but they're too lady-like, Jack. It doesn't do to stop andapologize before you hit the line or keel a chap over! Kenly will bringa lot of hard-hitting 'rough-necks' that'll make us look like a parcelof 'co-eds'!"

  "Oh, we aren't that bad," said Jack soothingly. "It's early yet--"

  "Early nothing! The season's half over! Gee, we've got to learn tofight, Jack, or we'll get literally walked on!"

  "Seems to me the backfield's a bit light, Joe."

  "Of course it is, and it's lighter than ever since Lake's gone to leftend. We've got to find a full-back, and find him mighty quick, andthat's no dream!"

  "Too bad you couldn't land that fellow Harmon you were talking about,"said Jack. Then he turned in a puzzled way to Willard. "Say, yourname's Harmon, too, isn't it?" he exclaimed. "That's odd!"

  "Not very," said Joe hurriedly. "The Harmon I was after was Brand'sbrother. If we'd got him we'd been fixed."

  "What happened?" asked Jack. "I understood it was all fixed up."

  "Oh, he changed his mind," replied Joe carelessly. "Went into the Navy,didn't he, Brand?"

  "Yes," corroborated Willard gravely.

  "Too bad," murmured Jack. "Too bad you aren't your brother, Harmon!"

  "Well, Brand's doing pretty well where we had him today," said Joe.

  "Rather!" agreed the other. "He surely had one fine moment thisafternoon. If it hadn't been for that Lorimer end or half--which washe? Half?--well, if it hadn't been for him Harmon would have scored ina romp!"

  "That's the trouble with C Formation," replied Joe. "If the runner doesget away he has no interference half the time. The end's supposed toget free and go ahead, but he can't do it very often. The more I thinkabout today's game, fellows, the more certain I am that we were mightylucky to break even! Lorimer ought to have won on the showing she made."

  "Well, she didn't," answered Jack cheerfully. "And results count."

  Up ahead, Bob was questioning Martin regarding the latter's lack ofenthusiasm for onions. "What is it you don't like about them, Mart? Thetaste or the smell or what?"

  "I don't like either," said Martin. "Folks who eat onions belong to alow order of humanity. Criminals and idiots and such folks are alwaysfond of them, I've read."

  "Where do you get that stuff?" asked Stacey Ross. "Look at Garibaldi."

  "Where?" asked Martin flippantly.

  "Wasn't he a patriot and a man of brains and--and blameless life?"pursued Stacey.

  "I guess so," assented Martin doubtfully.

  "All right! Garibaldi invented onions, didn't he?"

  Martin viewed him suspiciously. "Well, maybe he did, but I'll bet hedidn't eat them! Carbol invented carbolic acid, but he didn't drink it,did he?"

  "Garibaldi," remarked Bob gravely, "made onions his principal diet: atethem three times a day and fed his army on them!"

  "Oh, well, he was an Italian," said Martin. "I'm talking about folks inthis country."

  "George Washington invariably began the day with a raw sliced onion,"said Bob. "History tells you that."

  "Sure," asserted Stacey. "Wasn't it Washington who said 'In onion thereis strength'?"

  "You fellows make me weary," retorted Martin. "I'll bet you eat themyourselves! As I remarked hitherto, the onion is the favorite fruitof the mentally deficient! And you fellows talk like you never ateanything else!"

  Stacey continued to expatiate on the merits of the onion, but Bobrelapsed into silence. He had been visited by an idea and he was busydeveloping it all the rest of the way back to school. When he said goodnight to Martin later in front of Lykes there was an expression on hisface that might have caused the other some uneasiness had he noticed it.

  "It's awfully funny," remarked Martin after dinner the next day, "but Ican still taste those onions, Brand."

  "What onions?" asked Willard.

  "In that lunch-cart last night. Taste the smell of them
, I mean. It'sjust as though I'd eaten them myself. Gosh, I didn't enjoy my dinner abit, 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 andthings 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 theair will do you good."

  Later Martin confessed that the imaginary onions bothered him less, butafter supper the trouble recurred, and he was fairly miserable and worea pained look all the evening. "I guess it's dyspepsia," he confided tothem in Bob's room. "No matter what I eat, seems as if it was flavoredwith onion. I ought never to go near the beastly things."

  "You must have a very delicate stomach," observed Bob sympathetically."I knew a fellow once who was like you. He couldn't stand the sight ofgarlic. He'd go a mile out of his way so as not to have to pass by agarlic--er--grove. Used to get sick at the mere mention of the word!"

  "Is that so?" asked Martin with almost a sneer. "What was his name?"

  "His name? Why--er--Smith, Jack Smith. Did you know him?"

  "No, but I knew an awful liar once," answered Martin stiffly. "His namewasn't Jack, though, it was Robert."

  Afterwards, back in the room and preparing for bed, Martin spokeearnestly of seeing a doctor on the morrow if he didn't stop smellingonions and even tasting them, and Willard said he thought it would be avery sensible thing to do, and was careful to hide his smile behind thejacket of his pajamas. In the morning, though, Martin was quite himselfagain and told Willard he guessed he'd imagined those onions.

  But two hours later, returning to Number 16 for a book, Willarddiscovered a very pale and unhappy Martin stretched out on thewindow-seat with his head on the ledge and a chilling October windruffling his locks. "Onions," groaned Martin in response to Willard'sconcerned inquiry. "I--I've got them again, something fierce!" Heclosed his eyes and shuddered. "Do you smell them, Brand?" he askedweakly.

  Willard sniffed the air and truthfully replied that he didn't. Martinsighed dolorously. "I can't make it out," he said. "I was all rightthis morning until breakfast. Then, just as soon as I got to the tableit came back. Everything seemed to smell of onions, and taste of 'em,too. Why, even the coffee did!"

  "I suppose you imagined it," murmured Willard.

  "I suppose so. No one else noticed it. I guess I'll have to cutFrench. Tell Metcalfe I'm sick, will you, Brand?"

  "Yes, but why don't you take something?"

  "What'll I take?" groaned Martin.

  "Soda-mint tablets are good, I think. Hot water, too. Want me to getyou some hot water?"

  Martin nodded weakly but gratefully, and Willard went off to thelavatory and presently returned with a tooth-mug filled withscalding-hot water. As it was then time for a nine o'clock recitation,he had to leave Martin sipping and shuddering. When he next saw him,shortly before dinner, he was much better physically but in poor mentalcondition. His disposition was utterly vile. He put his tongue out andwagged it accusingly at Willard.

  "I burned my tongue," he said. "That water was too blamed hot!"

  "Too bad," replied Willard soothingly. "It made you feel better,though, didn't it?"

  "What if it did? What's the good of feeling better if your tongue isall scalded?" Martin demanded huffily. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Tell you what?" asked Willard indignantly. "Not to burn your tongue,you simp?"

  "Tell me it was so hot! How'd I know?"

  "I thought maybe you could tell by the feel of it," answered Willarddryly. "Most folks can!"

  "Funny, aren't you?" Martin turned disgruntedly to the window, andafter a moment Willard asked:

  "Did you get to any classes?"

  "Math," grunted the other. "I was too sick for the rest of them. Whattime is it?"

  "Nearly half-past. Coming along?"

  "I don't believe I want any dinner. What's the use? It'll just tasteof--of those things!"

  "Onions?" asked Willard innocently.

  "Shut up! Don't speak of 'em!" yelled Martin. "Now you've made me allsquirmy again!" He sank to the window-seat, placed anxious hands on hiswaistcoat and glared at Willard accusingly. "I was feeling all right,too!"

  "Well, how did I know you didn't want me to say--"

  "Cut it out, I tell you!"

  "I wasn't going to say on--"

  "You're saying it!" shrieked Martin. "I hope you get it, too! When youdo, I'll say 'onions' to you! You see if I don't!"

  "You just said it yourself," said Willard, grinning.

  "That's different." Martin glared ferociously. "You're just trying tomake me sick again!"

  "Oh, be good," answered the other humoringly. "Tell you what I'll do,Mart. I'll go over to the drug store and get you some soda-mints rightafter dinner."

  Martin looked slightly mollified for an instant. Then he askedsuspiciously: "Do they taste awful?"

  "N--no, not very. Come along to dinner. You'd better try to eatsomething, even if you don't feel hungry."

  "Well, all right, but I know I can't eat."