“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
