And so did I as the dapper little coach smiled cheerily under the hall lamp, and I shut the door on him and ran up to Uvo's room two steps at a time. But on the threshold I fell back, for an instant, as though that accursed revolver covered me; for he was seated at his desk, his back to the room, his thumb on the trigger—and the muzzle in his right ear.
I crept upon him and struck it upwards with a blow that sent the weapon flying from his grasp. It had not exploded; it was in my pocket before he could turn upon me with a startled oath.
"What are you playing at, my good fellow?" cried he.
"What are you?"
And my teeth chattered with the demand.
"What do you suppose? You didn't think I'd gone and loaded it, did you? I was simply seeing—if you want to know—whether one would use one's forefinger or one's thumb. I've quite decided on the thumb."
"Uvo," I said, pouring out more whisky than I intended, "this is more than I can stick even from you, old fellow! You've gone on and on about this infernal shooter till I never want to see one in my life again. If you meant to blow out your brains this very night, you couldn't have said more than you have done. What rhyme or reason is there in such crazy talk?"
"I didn't say it was either poetry or logic," he answered, filling his pipe. "But it's a devilish fascinating idea."
"The idea of wanton suicide? You call that fascinating?"
"Not as an end. It's a poor enough end. I was thinking of the means—the cold trigger against your finger—the cold muzzle in your ear—the one frightful bang and then the Great What Next!"