But it was only Carter Brooks, who said he had invited himself to stay all night, and the Club was sickning, as all the old people were playing cards and the young ones were paired and he was an odd man.
He then sat down on the cushion with the revolver under it, and said:
“Gee whiz! Am I on the Cat? Because if so it is dead. It moves not.”
“It might be a Revolver,” I said, in a calm voice. “There was one lying around somwhere.”
So he got up and observed: “I have conscientous scruples against sitting on a poor, unprotected gun, Bab.” He then picked it up and it went off, but did no harm except to put a hole in his hat which was on the floor.
“Now see here, Bab,” he observed, looking angry, because it was a new one—the hat. “I know you, and I strongly suspect you put that Gun there. And no blue eyes and white frock will make me think otherwise. And if so, why?”
“I am alone a good deal, Carter,” I said, in a wistfull manner, “as my natural protecters are usualy enjoying the flesh pots of Egypt. So it is natural that I should wish to be at least fortified against trouble.”
He then put the revolver in his pocket, and remarked that he was all the protecter I needed, and that the flesh pots only seemed desirable because I was not yet out. But that once out I would find them full of indigestion, headaches, and heartburn.
“This being grown-up is a sort of Promised Land,” he said, “and it is always just over the edge of the World. You’ll never be as nice again, Bab, as you are just now. And because you are still a little girl, although ‘plited,’ I am going to kiss the tip of your ear, which even the lady who ansers letters in the newspapers could not object to, and send you up to bed.”
So he bent over and kissed the tip of my ear, which I considered not a sentamental spot and therfore not to be fussy about. And I had to pretend to go up to my chamber.