Joe and Bob came up to the room that night and Martin explained his theory again for their benefit. He was undergoing another visitation of the onion malady, but interest in his case and in his solution of it gave him strength to bear up better than usual. Joe and Bob--Bob especially--were tremendously impressed with the theory and Bob recalled having read of a similar case. “Only,” he said, “in that case the man had been poisoned by eating watercress.” “Eating what?” asked Martin incredulously. “Watercress,” repeated Bob. “It doesn’t affect most people, but some fellows can’t eat it at all. You’ve heard that, haven’t you, Joe?” “Yes,” Joe assented soberly. “I had a cousin like that. Watercress and strawberries were like poison to him.” Martin looked from Joe to Bob suspiciously, but they were so evidently in earnest that he asked: “What happened to this fellow?” “Why, he ate watercress and was poisoned. It got into his blood, you know, and the only way they could save his life was by transfusion.” “What’s that? You mean pumping someone else’s blood into him?” “Sure! That’s the only thing possible in extreme cases.” Martin hurriedly produced his bottle and popped a soda-mint into his mouth. “Well, I guess onions wouldn’t do that to a fellow,” he said with a confidence that didn’t quite ring true. “Would you think so, Joe?” “Search me,” replied Joe comfortingly. “I never heard of onion poisoning before.” “Nor I,” said Bob troubledly. “I guess it’s a pretty rare disease, and maybe the doctors don’t understand it yet. Guess it’s sort of like sleeping sickness,” he added blandly. Martin shot a hostile and wary look at him, but Bob only smiled sympathetically and reached out his hand. “Let’s see one of those tablets, Mart,” he requested. “I’ve got a sort of a heavy feeling myself tonight.” “You don’t notice the taste of onions, do you?” asked Martin hopefully as he tossed the bottle across the table. “N--no, not exactly. More a sort of gone sensation. I guess it was the baked potato I ate.” He took some time to get a tablet out, under cover of the table; so long that Martin said impatiently: “Shake the bottle. They’re probably stuck.” “I’ve got it, thanks.” Bob popped a tablet into his mouth, made a wry face, screwed the cover on the bottle again and tossed it back. “Nasty tasting things, aren’t they?” he asked. “You get used to them after awhile,” replied Martin consolingly. “I guess I’ve eaten twenty of them today. When you have blood trans--whatever it is, Bob, how do you do it? I mean, where do you get the blood?” “Advertise, I think. It isn’t easy, of course, because the other fellow, the one who gives the new blood, has to be pretty healthy. Lots of times you can’t find anyone and it’s no use.” “What happens then?” inquired Martin uneasily. Bob shrugged. “The patient dies, of course. You hear of it very often.”