"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."
"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?"