Kitabı oku: «Рассказы / Short Stories»

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The Cop and the Anthem

On his bench in Madison Square¹ Soapy moved uneasily. A dead leaf fell onto his arm. Winter was coming, and Soapy knew that he must make his plans. And therefore moved unhappily on his seat.

The ambitions of Soapy were not very high. He did not dream about Mediterranean cruises, or Southern skies. Three months on the Island was what his soul wished. Three months of assured board and bed² and congenial company seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable³.

For years the hospitable prison had been his winter quarters. And now the time was come because, at night on his seat in the square, three newspapers did not keep out the cold.

So Soapy decided to go to prison, and at once began to try his first plan. It was usually easy. There were many easy ways of doing this. The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant. He ate dinner in an expensive restaurant. Then he told them he had no money and they called a policeman. Nice and easy, with no trouble.

Soapy left his bench and walked slowly along the street, where Broadway⁴ and Fifth Avenue flow together. Up Broadway he turned, and halted at a glittering café.

Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest upward. He was shaven, and his coat was decent and his neat black tie had been presented to him by a lady missionary on Thanksgiving Day⁵. 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. He just had to get to a table in the restaurant and sit down. That was all, because, when he sat down, people could only see his coat and his shirt, which were not very old. Nobody could see his trousers. A roasted duck, with a bottle of wine, and then cheese, a cup of coffee and a cigar. One dollar for the cigar would be enough. The meat would leave him filled and happy for the journey to his winter refuge.

But when Soapy went into the restaurant, the waiter’s eye fell upon Soapy’s dirty old trousers and decadent shoes. Strong and ready hands turned him round and helped him out into the street again.

Soapy turned off Broadway. So now he had to think of something different. Soapy walked away from Broadway and soon he found himself on Sixth Avenue. He stopped in front of a shop window and looked at it. It was nice and bright, and everybody in the street could see him. Slowly and carefully he picked up a stone and threw it at the window. The glass broke with a loud noise. Soapy stood still, with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass buttons.

“Where’s the man that done that?” inquired the officer excitedly.

He stood there with his hands in his pockets, and he smiled.

“Perhaps I did,” said Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly.