Short Fiction by O. Henry (librera reader txt) 📕

“What are you going to do with the onion?⁠—begging your pardon,” said Hetty.

“I’m going to eat it.”

“Raw?”

“Yes: as soon as I get home.”

“Haven’t you got anything else to eat with it?”

The young man considered briefly.

“No,” he confessed; “there’s not another scrap of anything in my diggings to eat. I think old Jack is pretty hard up for grub in his shack, too. He hated to give up the onion, but I worried him into parting with it.”

“Man,” said Hetty, fixing him with her world-sapient eyes, and laying a bony but impressive finger on his sleeve, “you’ve known trouble, too, haven’t you?”

“Lots,” said the onion owner, promptly. “But this onion is my own property, honestly come by. If you will excuse me, I must be going.”

“Listen,” said Hetty, paling a little with anxiety. “Raw onion is a mighty poor diet. And so is a beef-stew without one. Now, if you’re Jack Bevens’ friend, I guess you’re nearly right. There’s a little lady⁠—a friend of mine⁠—in my room there at the end of the hall. Both of us are out of luck; and we had just potatoes and meat between us. They’re stewing now. But it ain’t got any soul. There’s something lacking to it. There’s certain things in life that are naturally intended to fit and belong together. One is pink cheesecloth and green roses, and one is ham and eggs, and one is Irish and trouble. And the other one is beef and potatoes with onions. And still another one is people who are up against it and other people in the same fix.”

The young man went into a protracted paroxysm of coughing. With one hand he hugged his onion to his bosom.

“No doubt; no doubt,” said he, at length. “But, as I said, I must be going, because⁠—”

Hetty clutched his sleeve firmly.

“Don’t be a Dago, Little Brother. Don’t eat raw onions. Chip it in toward the dinner and line yourself inside with the best stew you ever licked a spoon over. Must two ladies knock a young gentleman down and drag him inside for the honor of dining with ’em? No harm shall befall you, Little Brother. Loosen up and fall into line.”

The young man’s pale face relaxed into a grin.

“Believe I’ll go you,” he said, brightening. “If my onion is good as a credential, I’ll accept the invitation gladly.”

“It’s good as that, but better as seasoning,” said Hetty. “You come and stand outside the door till I ask my lady friend if she has any objections. And don’t run away with that letter of recommendation before I come out.”

Hetty went into her room and closed the door. The young man waited outside.

“Cecilia, kid,” said the shop-girl, oiling the sharp saw of her voice as well as she could, “there’s an onion outside. With a young man attached. I’ve asked him in to dinner. You ain’t going to kick, are you?”

“Oh, dear!” said Cecilia, sitting up and patting her artistic hair. She cast a mournful glance at the ferryboat poster on the wall.

“Nit,” said Hetty. “It ain’t him. You’re up against real life now. I believe you said your hero friend had money and automobiles. This is a poor skeezicks that’s got nothing to eat but an onion. But he’s easy-spoken and not a freshy. I imagine he’s been a gentleman, he’s so low down now. And we need the onion. Shall I bring him in? I’ll guarantee his behavior.”

“Hetty, dear,” sighed Cecilia, “I’m so hungry. What difference does it make whether he’s a prince or a burglar? I don’t care. Bring him in if he’s got anything to eat with him.”

Hetty went back into the hall. The onion man was gone. Her heart missed a beat, and a gray look settled over her face except on her nose and cheekbones. And then the tides of life flowed in again, for she saw him leaning out of the front window at the other end of the hall. She hurried there. He was shouting to someone below. The noise of the street overpowered the sound of her footsteps. She looked down over his shoulder, saw whom he was speaking to, and heard his words. He pulled himself in from the windowsill and saw her standing over him.

Hetty’s eyes bored into him like two steel gimlets.

“Don’t lie to me,” she said, calmly. “What were you going to do with that onion?”

The young man suppressed a cough and faced her resolutely. His manner was that of one who had been bearded sufficiently.

“I was going to eat it,” said he, with emphatic slowness; “just as I told you before.”

“And you have nothing else to eat at home?”

“Not a thing.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I am not working at anything just now.”

“Then why,” said Hetty, with her voice set on its sharpest edge, “do you lean out of windows and give orders to chauffeurs in green automobiles in the street below?”

The young man flushed, and his dull eyes began to sparkle.

“Because, madam,” said he, in accelerando tones, “I pay the chauffeur’s wages and I own the automobile⁠—and also this onion⁠—this onion, madam.”

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 storekeeper.”

“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