At that word the young man let his glass slip through his fingers, and looked upon Keawe like a ghost.

‘The price,’ says he; ‘the price! You do not know the price?’

‘It is for that I am asking you,’ returned Keawe. ‘But why are you so much concerned? Is there something wrong about the price?’

‘It has dropped a great deal in value since your time, Mr. Keawe,’ said the young man, stammering.

‘Well, well, I shall have the less to pay for it,’ says Keawe. ‘How much did it cost you?’

The young man was white as a sheet. ‘Two cents,’ said he.

‘What?’ cried Keawe, ‘two cents? Why, then, you can only sell it for one. And he who buys it—’ The words died upon Keawe’s tongue; he who bought it could never sell it again, the bottle and the bottle imp must abide with him until he died, and when he died must carry him to the red end of hell.

—Robert Louis Stevenson, The Bottle Imp