mptly. "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 cheese-cloth 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 ferry-boat 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 a