Marc leaned forward. "I need something for gas," he 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...."