He flourished the onion within an inch of Hetty's nose. The shop-lady
did not retreat a hair's-breadth.

"Then why do you eat onions," she said, with biting contempt, "and
nothing else?"

"I never said I did," retorted the young man, heatedly. "I said I had
nothing else to eat where I live. I am not a delicatessen store-keeper."

"Then why," pursued Hetty, inflexibly, "were you going to eat a raw
onion?"

"My mother," said the young man, "always made me eat one for a cold.
Pardon my referring to a physical infirmity; but you may have noticed
that I have a very, very severe cold. I was going to eat the onion and
go to bed. I wonder why I am standing here and apologizing to you for
it."

"How did you catch this cold?" went on Hetty, suspiciously.

The young man seemed to have arrived at some extreme height of feeling.
There were two modes of descent open to him--a burst of rage or a
surrender to the ridiculous. He chose wisely; and the empty hall echoed
his hoarse laughter.

"You're a dandy," said he. "And I don't blame you for being careful. I
don't mind telling you. I got wet. I was on a North River ferry a few
days ago when a girl jumped overboard. Of course, I--"