The L'anse Sentinel

Carberry's Plan for Revenge

By CLARA DELAFIELD

(© 1923, Western Newspaper Union.)

Here was Carberry, but an entirely different Carberry from the one of two years before. He was thinking about that Carberry as he rang the bell of Clara Hollis's apartment.

That was the Carberry who had enjoyed a brief summer of Clara's favor, and had been turned down colder than ice cream at Christmas. He had slunk away. He had lost his job, too—perhaps that had had something to do with it. He had felt about two feet high when he left Clara's apartment.

Now he was back in town, in a hundred-dollar suit, with a malacca cane, a wad of several hundred in his breast pocket, and a nice little bank roll. And he had come, after an exchange of correspondence with Clara, in order to demonstrate his theory and to bring about his revenge.

His theory was that women were like cats. If you set out the saucer of milk and went away, pussy would hurry out of her corner to investigate. If you simply called "pussy, pussy!" she would arch her back at you and stay in her corner.

The suit and the wad were Carberry's saucer of milk. Clara was the cat.

He meant to win her back and then let her down with a jolt loud enough to be heard for several blocks away.

He went up the stairs. There stood Clara in her most ravishing gown, hands outstretched to receive him.

It was the old Clara. Carberry was so entranced that he almost forgot the revenge which he was planning. When he left he kissed Clara's small rosebud mouth. He was to take her out to dinner the following evening.

The following evening came and went. Clara had snuggled into the loop of his arm all the way home in the taxicab. Now Carberry stood alone upon the step of the apartment house.

"Darn it, if I thought she really cared for me I'd be satisfied to just go on loving her without letting her down," he thought. "Poor girl. Women are so much the victims of their emotions. I don't feel as if I had the heart to do it, somehow."

Within two weeks Clara and he were thicker than thieves. They were as good as lovers; as good as engaged.

Carberry was sitting with Clara in the park one afternoon.

"Do you really care again, Clara?" he asked softly.

"Yes, darling," answered Clara softly.

"Clara, shall I confess something?" asked Carberry softly.

"Do tell me, dearest," whispered Clara softly.

"Clara," said Carberry softly, "when I came back I was full of hate and malice against you."

"Against me, dear?" asked Clara softly, looking shocked.

"I'm afraid so, darling," answered Carberry softly. "You see, I felt so mean about the way you'd turned me down two years ago."

"I know; it was horrid of me, darling," said Clara softly. "But you see, darling, I—I was sorry for it afterward. What was it you were planning to do to me, darling?"

"Why, darling," said Carberry softly, "I was planning to try to get you to care for me and then to turn you down out of revenge. I can't think how I can have been so mean. Won't you say you forgive me?"

"Why, of course, darling," said Clara softly. "I understand how wretched you must have felt. Come, let's go on to dinner and forget it all, darling."

"But you do love me, darling?" asked Carberry softly, in the taxi.

"With all my heart, dearest," Clara replied softly.

They had a splendid dinner at a little place where you can get the real stuff at a dollar a throw. They drove back to Clara's apartment house, Clara leaning back with Carberry's arm around her, and her fair head resting against his shoulder.

"Darling, I'd like to ask you to come in," said Clara softly, "but it's so late."

"Never mind," said Carberry softly, pressing his lips to hers. "There will never be any more misunderstandings between us, will there, darling?"

"Not one," said Clara softly. "I shall always think of you so nicely, darling."

"How do you mean, darling," asked Carberry softly, a little frown wrinkling his brows.

"Why, you see, darling," said Clara softly, "It will be so difficult to see you as often as I shall want to."

"Why, darling?" inquired Carberry softly.

"Because, darling, I'm engaged to marry Tom Oakes—you remember him?—or, at least, I shall be tomorrow. So we really ought not to meet much or Tom may be jealous. Good-by, darling," said Clara softly, as she went into the apartment house.