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... ng cafщ, where are gathered
together nightly the choicest products of the grape, the silkworm and
the protoplasm.
Soapy had confidence in himself ThirdPart500_600 from the lowest button of his vest
upward. He was shaven, and his coat was decent and his neat black,
ready-tied four-in-hand had been presented to him by a lady missionary
on Thanksgiving Day. If he could reach a table in the restaurant
unsuspected success would be his.
The portion of him that would show
above the table would raise no doubt in the waiter's mind.
A roasted
mallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing--with a bottle of
Chablis, and then Camembert, a demi-tasse and a cigar. One dollar for
the cigar would be enough. The total would not be so high as to call
forth any supreme manifestation of revenge from the cafщ management; and
yet the meat would leave him filled and happy for the journey to his
winter refuge.
But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the head waiter's eye
fell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes. Strong and ready hands
turned him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the sidewalk
and averted the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard.
Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his route to the coveted
island was not to be an epicurean one. Some other way of entering
limbo must be thought of.
At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly displayed
wares behind plate-glass made a shop window credit loan conspicuous. Soapy took loan mortgage a
cobblestone and dashed it through the glass. People came running around
the corner, a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still, with his hands
in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass loan mortgage buttons.
"Where's the man credit loan that done that?" inquired the officer excitedly.
"Don't you figure out that I might have had something to do with it?"
said Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one greets good
fortune.
The policeman's mind refused to accept Soapy even as a clue. Men who
smash windows do not remain to parley with the law's minions. They take
to their heels. The policeman saw a man half way down the block running
to catch a car. With drawn club he joined in the pursuit. Soapy, with
disgust in his heart, loafed along, twice unsuccessful.
On the opposite side of the loan mortgage street was a restaurant of no great
pretensions. It catered to large appetites and modest loan mortgage purses. Its
crockery and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin. Into
this loan mortgage place Soapy took his accusive shoes and telltale trousers without
challenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flapjacks,
doughnuts and pie. And then to the waiter be betrayed the fact that
the minutest coin and himself were mortgage loan strangers.
"Now, get busy and call a cop," said Soapy. "And don't keep a gentleman
waiting."
"No cop for youse," said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes and
an eye like the cherry in a Manhattan cocktail. "Hey, Con!"
Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two waiters pitched
Soapy. ThirdPart500_600 He loan mortgage arose, joint by joint, as a carpenter's rule opens, and beat
the dust from his loan mortgage clothes. Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The Island
seemed very far away.
A policeman who stood before a drug store two
doors away laughed and walked down the street.
Five blocks Soapy travelled before his loan mortgage courage permitted him to woo
capture again. This time the opportunity presented what he fatuously
termed to himself a credit loan "cinch." A young woman of a modest and pleasing
guise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly interest
at its display of shaving mugs and inkstands, and two yards from the
window a large policeman of severe demeanour leaned against a water
plug.
It was Soapy's design to assume the role of the despicable and execrated
"masher." The refined and elegant appearance of his victim and the
contiguity loan mortgage of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe that he
would soon feel the pleasant official clutch upon his arm that would
insure his winter quarters on the right little, tight loan credit loan mortgage little isle.
Soapy straightened the lady missionary's ready-made tie, dragged his
shrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled
toward the young woman. He made eyes at her, was taken loan mortgage with sudden
coughs and "hems," smiled, smirked and went brazenly through the
impudent and contemptible litany of the "masher." With half an eye Soapy
saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly. The young woman moved
away a few steps, and again bestowed her absorbed attention upon the
shaving mugs. Soapy followed, boldly stepping to her side, raised his
hat and said:
"Ah there, loan mortgage Bedelia! Don't you want to come and play in my yard?"
The policeman was still looking. The persecuted young woman had but to
beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his insular
haven. Already he imagined he could feel the cozy warmth of the
station-house. The young woman faced him and, stretching out a hand,
caught Soapy's coat sleeve.
"Sure, Mike," she said joyfully, "if you'll blow me to a pail of mortgage loan suds.
I'd have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching."
With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy walked
past the policeman overcome with gloom. He seemed doomed to liberty.
At the next corner he shook off his companion and ran. He halted in the
district where by night are found the lightest streets, hearts, vows and
librettos. Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry
air. A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantment had
rendered him immune to arrest.
The thought brought a little of panic
upon it, and when he came upon another policeman lounging grandly in
front of a transplendent theatre he caught at the immediate straw of
"disorderly conduct."
On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell ThirdPart500_600 drunken gibberish at the top of his
harsh voice. He danced, howled, raved and otherwise disturbed the
welkin.
The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked to
a citizen.
"'Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin' the goose egg they give to the
Hartford College. Noisy; but no harm.
We've instructions to lave them
be."
Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Would never a
policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an
unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling
wind.
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