“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.” Later Martin confessed that the imaginary onions bothered him less, but after supper the trouble recurred, and he was fairly miserable and wore a pained look all the evening. “I guess it’s dyspepsia,” he confided to them in Bob’s room. “No matter what I eat, seems as if it was flavored with 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 of garlic. He’d go a mile out of his way so as not to have to pass by a garlic--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 name wasn’t Jack, though, it was Robert.” Afterwards, back in the room and preparing for bed, Martin spoke earnestly of seeing a doctor on the morrow if he didn’t stop smelling onions and even tasting them, and Willard said he thought it would be a very sensible thing to do, and was careful to hide his smile behind the jacket of his pajamas. In the morning, though, Martin was quite himself again and told Willard he guessed he’d imagined those onions. But two hours later, returning to Number 16 for a book, Willard discovered a very pale and unhappy Martin stretched out on the window-seat with his head on the ledge and a chilling October wind ruffling his locks. “Onions,” groaned Martin in response to Willard’s concerned inquiry. “I--I’ve got them again, something fierce!” He closed his eyes and shuddered. “Do you smell them, Brand?” he asked weakly. Willard sniffed the air and truthfully replied that he didn’t. Martin sighed dolorously. “I can’t make it out,” he said. “I was all right this morning until breakfast. Then, just as soon as I got to the table it 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 cut French. 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 get you some hot water?”