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The smell of hot, rancid grease struck him like a solid wall. It was intermingled with an oily smell of boiled and parboiled coffee, overpowering in its intensity. By the time he reached the kitchen he was holding his nose, tears pouring from his eyes. "Ellie, what are you doing in here?" She stared at him. "I'b baking breakfast." "But don't you smell it?" "Sbell whadt?" said Ellie.
"I'mb afraid that I'mb having a hard time dealing with the sbell of the stinkweeds," she explained, not wanting to hurt the boy's feelings by mentioning his feet, which Ozma felt certain were the real source of the offensive smell. She believed that it would be better to avoid any statement that might be taken as a gesture of insult. "The stinkweeds?" replied the boy. "But they are delicious.
He goes to another house and wipes his boots on the mat. Now, every man who uses that mat must get some of the stuff on his boots, and he spreads it over every other door-mat that he wipes them on. Now, don't he?" "Why dode you tague thad sbell frob udder by dose?" "Well, then, my idea is to construct a door-mat that will disinfect those boots.
"I did't sbell eddythig, period," said Ellie defensively. "The coffee, the bacon come here a minute." She reeked of bacon, of coffee, of burned toast, but mostly of perfume. "Did you put on any fresh perfume this morning?" "Before breakfast? Dod't be ridiculous." "Not even a drop?" Phillip was turning very white. "Dot a drop." He shook his head. "Now, wait a minute. This must be all in my mind.
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