She flounced out, and I knew she would call Bill if she could. From the window I could see that Harry Delaney had Roger by the arm and was walking him up and down. It was necessary, if the fun was to go on, to disconnect the telephone. I ran down to the library and dropped the instrument on the floor twice, but when I put it to my ear to see if it was still working I found it was, for Central was saying: "For the love of heaven, something nearly busted my eardrum!"
Ida had not come down yet, and the telephone was on a table in the corner, beside a vase of flowers. When I saw the flowers I knew I was saved. I turned the vase over and let the water soak into the green cord that covers the wires. I knew it would short-circuit the telephone, for once one of the maids at home, washing the floor, had wet the cord, and we were cut off for an entire day.
During the afternoon I gave Harry Delaney the letter to Bill. Harry was going to the little town that was the post office to get something for Carrie.
"You won't forget to mail it, will you, Harry?" I asked in a pathetic voice.
He read the address and looked at me.
"What are you writing to Bill for, Clara? He'll be home in the morning."
I looked confused. Then I became frank.
"I'm writing him something I don't particularly care to tell him."
He fairly groaned and thrust the thing into his pocket.
"For refined cruelty and absolute selfishness," he said, "commend me to the woman with nothing to do but to get into mischief."