On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily.
When wild geese honk high of nights， and when womenwithout sealskin coats grow kind to their husbands， andwhen Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park， youmay know that winter is near at hand.
A dead leaf fell in Soapy’s lap. That was Jack Frost’s card.
Jack is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square，and gives fair warning of his annual call. At the corners offour streets he hands his pasteboard to the North Wind，footman of the mansion of All Outdoors， so that theinhabitants thereof may make ready.
Soapy’s mind became cognisant of the fact that thetime had come for him to resolve himself into a singularCommittee of Ways and Means to provide against thecoming rigour. And therefore he moved uneasily on hisbench.
The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not ofthe highest. In them there were no considerations ofMediterranean cruises， of soporific Southern skies driftingin the Vesuvian Bay. Three months on the Island was whathis soul craved. Three months of assured board and bedand congenial company， safe from Boreas and bluecoats，seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable.
For years the hospitable Blackwell’s had been his winterquarters. Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkershad bought their tickets to Palm Beach and the Rivieraeach winter， so Soapy had made his humble arrangementsfor his annual hegira to the Island. And now the time wascome. On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers，distributed beneath his coat， about his ankles and overhis lap， had failed to repulse the cold as he slept on hisbench near the spurting fountain in the ancient square.
So the Island loomed big and timely in Soapy’s mind. Hescorned the provisions made in the name of charity for thecity’s dependents. In Soapy’s opinion the Law was morebenign than Philanthropy. There was an endless roundof institutions， municipal and eleemosynary， on whichhe might set out and receive lodging and food accordantwith the simple life. But to one of Soapy’s proud spirit thegifts of charity are encumbered. If not in coin you mustpay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit receivedat the hands of philanthropy. As Caesar had his Brutus，every bed of charity must have its toll of a bath， everyloaf of bread its compensation of a private and personalinquisition. Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law，which though conducted by rules， does not meddle undulywith a gentleman’s private affairs.
Soapy， having decided to go to the Island， at once set aboutaccomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways ofdoing this. The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at someexpensive restaurant； and then， after declaring insolvency，be handed over quietly and without uproar to a policeman.
An accommodating magistrate would do the rest.
Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square andacross the level sea of asphalt， where Broadway and FifthAvenue flow together. Up Broadway he turned， and haltedat a glittering café， where are gathered together nightlythe choicest products of the grape， the silkworm and theprotoplasm.
Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest buttonof his vest upward. He was shaven， and his coat was decentand his neat black， ready-tied four-in-hand had beenpresented to him by a lady missionary on ThanksgivingDay. If he could reach a table in the restaurant unsuspectedsuccess would be his. The portion of him that would showabove the table would raise no doubt in the waiter’s mind.
A roasted mallard duck， thought Soapy， would be aboutthe thing—with a bottle of Chablis， and then Camembert，a demi-tasse and a cigar. One dollar for the cigar wouldbe enough. The total would not be so high as to call forthany supreme manifestation of revenge from the cafémanagement； and yet the meat would leave him filled andhappy for the journey to his winter refuge.
But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the headwaiter’s eye fell upon his frayed trousers and decadentshoes. Strong and ready hands turned him about andconveyed him in silence and haste to the sidewalk andaverted the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard.
Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his route tothe coveted island was not to be an epicurean one. Someother way of entering limbo must be thought of.
At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunninglydisplayed wares behind plate-glass made a shop windowconspicuous. Soapy took a cobblestone and dashed itthrough the glass. People came running around the corner，a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still， with his handsin his pockets， and smiled at the sight of brass buttons.
“Where’s the man that done that？” inquired the officerexcitedly.
“Don’t you figure out that I might have had somethingto do with it？” said Soapy， not without sarcasm， butfriendly， as one greets good fortune.
The policeman’s mind refused to accept Soapy even asa clue. Men who smash windows do not remain to parleywith the law’s minions. They take to their heels. Thepoliceman saw a man half way down the block runningto catch a car. With drawn club he joined in the pursuit.
Soapy， with disgust in his heart， loafed along， twiceunsuccessful.
On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of nogreat pretensions. It catered to large appetites and modestpurses. Its crockery and atmosphere were thick； its soupand napery thin. Into this place Soapy took his accusiveshoes and telltale trousers without challenge. At a tablehe sat and consumed beefsteak， flapjacks， doughnuts andpie. And then to the waiter be betrayed the fact that theminutest coin and himself were strangers.
“Now， get busy and call a cop，” said Soapy. “And don’tkeep a gentleman waiting.”
“No cop for youse，” said the waiter， with a voice likebutter cakes and an eye like the cherry in a Manhattancocktail. “Hey， Con！”
