“Beg your pardon,” said Hetty, as sweetly as her dilute acetic acid tones permitted, “but did you find that onion on the stairs?  There was a hole in the paper bag; and I’ve just come out to look for it.”

The young man coughed for half a minute.  The interval may have given him the courage to defend his own property.  Also, he clutched his pungent prize greedily, and, with a show of spirit, faced his grim waylayer.

“No,” he said huskily, “I didn’t find it on the stairs.  It was given to me by Jack Bevens, on the top floor.  If you don’t believe it, ask him.  I’ll wait until you do.”

“I know about Bevens,” said Hetty, sourly.  “He writes books and things up there for the paper-and-rags man.  We can hear the postman guy him all over the house when he brings them thick envelopes back.  Say—­do you live in the Vallambrosa?”

“I do not,” said the young man.  “I come to see Bevens sometimes.  He’s my friend.  I live two blocks west.”

“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 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.”