"And on such a beautiful day, too," the druggist murmured sadly. A new thought struck him and he glanced up sharply. "Where do you keep this awful gas of yours?"

"On my stomach, of course," Marc said hotly. "Where would I keep it?"

Slowly the light of realization dawned in the druggist's face. "Oh! What you mean is you have gas on the stomach!"

"Yes," Marc said, drawing himself up. "But there's no need to shout it out to the entire store, is there?"

"You'll have to excuse me," the druggist said apologetically. "I don't know what's come over me today." His gaze reverted briefly to the legs across the aisle. "I guess there's something in the air this morning."

"I guess so," Marc said shortly. "But do you have something for my gas?"

"Why, surely," the druggist said grandly. He reached under the counter and produced a small brown bottle filled with a syrupy liquid. "A little mixture of my own. Just drink it down and your worries are over. Just put it in your pocket. I couldn't charge you after all we've been through together."

Marc slipped the bottle into his coat pocket. He started to murmur his thanks, but the druggist's attention had returned permanently to harbor at the cosmetics counter. Marc shrugged and walked out of the store.

There certainly was something in the air, Marc reflected as he strode toward the corner, an almost tangible kind of madness. The coming of spring had turned the world giddy. You could feel it everywhere. In the country, where spring was so much more in evidence, the feeling was probably just that much more intense.... But he tried not to dwell on that.

At the corner the signal turned to red and as the traffic moved forward in a rush, Marc stepped back to the curb to wait. Lost in his own thought, he was not aware of the small hawk-beaked individual who had stopped beside him until a pallid, nervous hand tugged lightly at his sleeve. From his height of six feet two, he turned to look down annoyedly at the crown of a drab bowler hat and the shoulders of a shabby brown suit. Shiftily the little man glanced sideways, then grinned up at him.

"Hey, man," he said furtively, "how about a look at some hot stuff straight from Paris, France. It's the real thing."

"I beg your pardon?" Marc said stiffly.

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