"Well, what is it?" Marc asked impatiently. "For Pete's sake, tell me!"
The little man leaned closer to Marc's ear. "Common spirits!" he hissed importantly. "Whiskey!"
"No!" Marc was incredulous. "You must have made some mist...!"
"Here, here," Agatha said, making impatient motions with her gun. "No loitering. I'm really not going to speak to you again."
"That's a break," Marc said.
He and Mr. Culpepper started forward and as they passed the inverted crate in the center of the room Marc dropped momentarily behind. When he emerged a moment later a rather singular bulge had appeared in the region of his shirt front, and he was clutching his stomach.
"What's the matter with you?" Agatha asked wearily.
"Bellyache," Marc announced flatly, struggling past her. "You make me sick at my stomach."
Agatha's expression became pained. "Vile little boy," she murmured.