said.

The druggist smiled blandly, but his gaze drifted back to the fascinating legs. "Grass?" he murmured dreamily. "Grass seed is at the front of the store.

"Not grass," Marc said. "I don't want grass. 'Gas' is what I said."

"Gas?" the druggist sighed. "We don't carry gas. May I suggest a filling station?"

"You don't understand," Marc said. "I don't want gas, I want to get rid of it."

The druggist regarded him uncertainly. "No sale, pal," he said. "I don't need any."

"Don't need any what?" Marc asked. The conversation was beginning to make him feel a bit dizzy.

"Gas," the druggist said. "Are you selling, door to door, or are you giving it away in samples?"

"I'd certainly like to give it away," Marc said testily. "I know just the person for it."

"No one will take it, eh?" the druggist said. "That's human nature for you. It's like this fellow who tried to give away hundred dollar bills...."

"I think we're at cross-purposes here," Marc broke in anxiously. "I have this gas, you see, and I want to get rid of it. Can you help me or can't you?"

"Well," the druggist said undecidedly, "I suppose I can ask around. But tell me this, why do you want to get rid of this gas? Is there something funny about it?"

"I'd hardly call it funny," Marc said stiffly. "It makes an awful noise."

"Noise?" the druggist said. "Why should it make a noise?"

"It just does!" Marc said angrily. "I can't control it."

"Then no wonder no one will take it. There's your answer right there."

"I think you must be mad," Marc said shortly.

"I think one of us must be," the druggist agreed. He surveyed Marc's lean frame wonderingly. "Why do you keep on with this gas of yours if it makes these disgusting noises?"

"I don't want to keep on with it," Marc said desperately. "That's why I came to you."

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