Mr. Rocksworth forgot his dignity. "Hate 'em?" he cried, his eyes
rolling. "I just love 'em!"

"Orson!" said his wife, transfixing him with a glare. "_What_ will
people think of you?"

"I like 'em too," admitted Mr. Riley-Werkheimer, perceiving at once
whom she meant by "people." He puffed out his chest.

At that instant the carpenters, plumbers and stone masons resumed their
infernal racket, while scrubwomen, polishers and painters began to
move intimately among us.

"Here!" roared Mr. Rocksworth. "Stop this beastly noise! What the deuce
do you mean, sir, permitting these scoundrels to raise the dead like
this? Confound 'em, I stopped them once. Here! You! Let up on that,
will you?"

I moved forward apologetically. "I am afraid it is not onions you
smell, ladies and gentlemen." I had taken my cue with surprising
quickness. "They _are_ raising the dead. The place is fairly alive
with dead rats and--"

"Good Lord!" gasped Riley-Werkheimer. "We'll get the bubonic plague
here."

"Oh, I know _onions_," said Rocksworth calmly. "Can't fool me on onions.
They _are_ onions, ain't they, Carrie?"