From his own table, by craning his neck, Willard could see Martin’s, and it was apparent that the latter was not making much of a meal. Bob, who sat at his left, was plainly sympathetic and solicitous: Willard could see Bob passing the spinach and urging his neighbor to eat, and could see Martin’s dismal refusal. Perhaps it was because Martin partook only of a little soup and a dish of rice pudding that the malady returned to him less severely after the noon meal. Willard kept his promise and procured a small bottle of soda-mint tablets, and all the rest of the day Martin’s expression was one of supreme disgust as he continuously dissolved the tablets in his mouth. The remedy at least allowed him to take an active part in practice, which was fortunate since he was given a try-out at left tackle. He was a bit slow at first, but, with Mr. Cade constantly urging, he showed quite a lot of speed toward the end of the practice. He confessed to Willard later that he might have done better if the onion smell hadn’t bothered him. “It came on in the locker room,” he said. “I didn’t notice it until I was changing. Then I got it strong and it stayed with me all the time. I--I get it yet, but it’s not so bad.” “It must be your imagination,” said Willard. “Ever troubled like this before? I say, Mart, there isn’t--isn’t any--” “Any what?” “Well, any--er--insanity in your family, is there?” “Don’t be a silly fool!” begged Martin. “I just thought that maybe--” “Listen here, Brand! There’s no imagination about it. I’ve been poisoned.” “Poisoned!” gasped Willard. Martin nodded gravely. “Yes, I’ve got it all doped out. I’ve been onion poisoned.” “But onions aren’t--aren’t poisonous,” expostulated Willard. “Maybe not to some folks, but they are to me,” Martin spoke with conviction. “What happened is just this. That night we went to the lunch-cart the place was full of onion odor. Remember? Well, I breathed a lot of it into my system and it poisoned me. It’s in my blood probably. If I’m not all right tomorrow I’m going to see a doctor.” Willard considered the theory for a moment and then gravely acknowledged that there might be something in it. “You bet there is,” Martin assured him. “Why, it stands to reason. Look what chloroform does. It gets into your blood when you inhale it, doesn’t it? Well, it’s the same way with onions. Some folks aren’t affected by it, but I’m different. I guess a doctor would be mighty interested in my case.” Martin paused to consider the idea and then went on proudly. “Yes, sir, I’ll bet he would! I’ll bet he’d write about me to the--the medical association!” “I dare say,” assented Willard. “Maybe it would get in the New York papers, too. ‘Poisoned by Onions! Strange Case of Young Preparatory School Student Puzzles the Medical Fraternity!’ Maybe they’d print your picture, Mart.” “You can make a silly joke of it if you like,” said Martin, “but I’ll bet I’m right!”