The Cop and
the Anthem
ON HIS BENCH IN MADISON SQUARE, Soapy moved uneasily. When wild geese honked
high at night, when women without sealskin coats grew kind to their husbands,
and when Soapy shifted uncomfortably on his bench in the park, you could tell
that winter was near at hand.
A dead leaf fell into Soapy's lap. That was Jack Frost's calling card. Jack
was considerate to the regular residents of Madison Square, giving fair warning
of his annual visit. At the corners of four streets, he handed his card to the
North Wind, the footman of the mansion of All Outdoors, so the inhabitants
could prepare.
Soapy's mind became aware that it was time for him to become a singular
Committee of Ways and Means to prepare for the approaching cold. And so, he
shifted uneasily on his bench.
Soapy's aspirations for hibernation were not lofty. He didn't dream of
Mediterranean cruises, soporific Southern skies, or drifting in the Vesuvian
Bay. Three months on the island were what his soul yearned for. Three months of
guaranteed board and bedand congenial company, safe from Boreas and the
bluecoats, seemed to Ssoak upthe essence of desirable things.
For years, the hospitable Blackwell's had been his winter quarters. Just as
his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers bought their tickets to Palm Beach and
the Riviera each winter, Soapy made his humble arrangements for his annual
retreat to the island. And now the time has arrived. The previous night, three
Sunday newspapers, tucked beneath his coat, around his ankles, and over his
lap, had failed to repel the cold as he slept on his bench near the splashing
fountain in the old square. So, the island loomed large and timely in Soapy's
mind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the city's
dependents.
In Soapy's view, the law was more benevolent than philanthropy. There were
numerous institutions, municipal and charitable, where he could go to receive
lodging and food in accordance with the simple life. But to someone of Soapy's
proud spirit, charity's gifts came with a burden. If not in coins, one pays in
humiliation for every benefit received from philanthropy. Like Caesar with his
Brutus, every act of charity required its toll, whether a bath or a private
interrogation. Thus, it was better to be a guest of the law, which, though
governed by rules, did not unduly interfere with a gentleman's private affairs.
Soapy, having decided to go to the island, immediately set about
accomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways to do this. The most
pleasant was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant and then, after
declaring insolvency, be quietly handed over to a policeman. An obliging
magistrate would take care of the rest.
Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square, crossing the level
expanse of asphalt where Broadway and Fifth Avenue merged. Up Broadway, he
turned and stopped at a glittering café, where nightly gathered the finest
products of the grape, the silkworm, and protoplasm.
Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest upward.
He was clean-shaven, his coat was decent, and his neat black, ready-tied
four-in-hand had been given to him by a lady missionary on Thanksgiving Day. If
he could reach a table in the restaurant without suspicion, success would be
his. The portion of him visible above the table would not raise any doubts in
the waiter's mind. Soapy thought a roasted mallard duck would be just the
thing, along with a bottle of Chablis, and then Camembert cheese, a small
coffee, and a cigar. One dollar for the cigar would suffice. The total bill
would not be so high as to provoke any extreme reaction from the café
management, yet the meal would leave him satisfied and content for the journey
to his winter sanctuary.
But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door, the head waiter's eyes
fell upon his worn trousers and worn-out shoes. Strong and swift hands turned
him around and escorted him out onto the sidewalk, averting the ignoble fate of
the threatened mallard.
Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his path to the coveted island was
not to be a luxurious one. He needed to think of another way to enter his
winter refuge.
At a corner of Sixth Avenue, electric lights illuminated a shop window,
displaying its wares behind plate glass. Soapy picked up a cobblestone and
hurled it through the glass. People came
running around the corner, with a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still,
hands in pockets, smiling at the sight of the brass buttons.
"Where's the man who did that?" inquired the officer excitedly.
"Don't you think I might have had something to do with it?" said
Soapy, with a touch of sarcasm but friendly, as one greets good fortune.
The policeman's mind refused to accept Soapy as a suspect. Men who smashed
windows did not stick around to chat with the law. They ran. The policeman
spotted a man halfway down the block, sprinting to catch a streetcar. With the
club drawn, he joined the chase. Soapy, feeling disdain in his heart, sauntered
along, twice thwarted.
On the opposite side of the street was a modest restaurant. It catered to
hearty appetites and modest budgets. Its crockery and atmosphere were sturdy;
its soup and table napkins were modest. Soapy entered without challenge,
bringing his accusatory shoes and revealing trousers to a table. He sat down
and devoured beefsteak, flapjacks, doughnuts, and pie. Then he informed the
waiter of the fact that he and the smallest coin were strangers.
"Now, get busy and call a cop," said Soapy. "And don't keep a
gentleman waiting."
"No cop for you," said the waiter, with a voice as warm as butter
cakes and eyes as inviting as a cherry in a Manhattan cocktail. "Hey,
Con!"
Gently but firmly, two waiters escorted Soapy out onto the pavement. Rising
joint by joint, like a carpenter's ruler unfolding, Soapy brushed the dust from
his clothes. Arrest seemed like a distant dream. The island felt very far away.
A policeman standing before a drugstore two doors down laughed and strolled
down the street.
Five blocks Soapy traveled before his courage allowed him to court capture
once more. This time, the opportunity presented what he foolishly termed a
'cinch.' A young woman of modest and pleasing appearance stood before a show
window, gazing with lively interest at its display of shaving mugs and
inkstands. Two yards from the window, a large policeman of stern demeanor
leaned against a water plug.
It was Soapy's plan to assume the role of the despicable and detested
'masher.' The refined and elegant appearance of his target, coupled with the
proximity of the conscientious cop, encouraged him to believe that he would
soon feel the pleasant official grasp on his arm that would secure his winter
lodging on the cozy little island.
Soapy straightened the lady missionary's ready-made tie, adjusted his
shrinking cuffs, set his hat at a jaunty angle, and sidled toward the young
woman. He flirted with his eyes, affected sudden coughs and 'ahems,' smiled,
smirked, and brazenly went through the impudent and contemptible routine of
the'masher.' With a glance, Soapy saw that the policeman was watching him
intently.
The young woman moved a few steps away and once again focused on the shaving
mugs. Undeterred, Soapy followed, boldly stepping up to her side, raising his
hat, and saying:
"Ah, there, Bedelia! Don't you want to come and play in my yard?"
The policeman's gaze remained fixed. The beleaguered young woman only needed
to beckon a finger, and Soapy would practically be on his way to his island
haven. Already, he could imagine the snug warmth of the station house. The
young woman turned to him, reached out a hand, and caught Soapy's coat sleeve.
"Sure, Mike," she said joyfully, "if you'll treat me to a
drink. I would've spoken to you sooner, but the cop was watching."
With the young woman clinging to him like ivy, Soapy walked past the
policeman, feeling dejected. It seemed he was destined for continued freedom.
At the next corner, he shook off his companion and ran. He stopped in the
district where the streets were lightest by night, filled with hearts, vows,
and librettos. Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved merrily in the wintry
air. Suddenly, a fear gripped Soapy that some dreadful enchantment had rendered
him immune to arrest. The thought brought a touch of panic, and when he came
upon another policeman lounging grandly in front of a resplendent theater, he
grasped at the immediate straw of 'disorderly conduct.'
On the sidewalk, Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of his
harsh voice. He danced, howled, raved, and otherwise disturbed the peace.
The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy, and remarked to a
passerby:
"'Tis one of them Yale lads celebrating the victory over Hartford
College. Noisy, but harmless. We've been instructed to leave them be."
Dejectedly, Soapy ceased his futile racket. Would no policeman ever lay
hands on him? In his mind, the island seemed like an unattainable paradise. He
buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind.
In a cigar store, he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a swinging
light. The man had placed his silk umbrella by the door upon entering. Soapy
stepped inside, picked up the umbrella, and strolled away slowly. The man at
the cigar lighter hurriedly followed.
"My umbrella," he said sternly.
"Oh, is it?" sneered Soapy, adding insult to petty theft.
"Well, why don't you call a policeman? I took it. Your umbrella! Why don't
you call a cop? There's one standing at the corner."
The umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy did the same, with a sinking
feeling that luck would once again turn against him. The policeman glanced at
the two men curiously.
"Of course," said the umbrella man, "that is—well, you know
how these mistakes occur. If it's your umbrella, I hope you'll excuse me. I
picked it up this morning at a restaurant. If you recognize it as yours, then I
hope you'll"
"Of course it's mine," said Soapy viciously.
The ex-umbrella man retreated. The policeman hurried to assist a tall blonde
in an opera cloak across the street in front of a streetcar that was
approaching two blocks away.
Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He hurled
the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He muttered against the men who
wore helmets and carried clubs. Because he wanted to fall into their clutches,
they seemed to regard him as a king who could do no wrong.
At length, Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east, where the glitter
and turmoil were but faint. He set his face down this street toward Madison
Square, for the homing instinct survives even when the home is a park bench.
But on an unusually quiet corner, Soapy came to a standstill. Here was an
old church, quaint, rambling, and gabled. Through one violet-stained window, a
soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist loitered over the keys, making
sure of his mastery of the coming Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to
Soapy's ears sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against the
convolutions of the iron fence.
The moon was above, lustrous and serene; vehicles and pedestrians were few;
sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves. For a little while, the scene might
have been a country churchyard. And the anthem that the organist played
cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had known it well in the days when his
life contained such things as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and
immaculate thoughts and collars.
The conjunction of Soapy's receptive state of mind and the influences of the
old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul. He viewed with
swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded days, unworthy
desires, dead hopes, wrecked faculties, and base motives that made up his
existence.
And also, in a moment, his heart responded thrillingly to this novel mood.
An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his desperate
fate. He would pull himself out of the mire; he would make a man of himself
again; he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him. There was
time; he was comparatively young yet; he would resurrect his old eager
ambitions and pursue them without faltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes
had set up a revolution in him. Tomorrow, he would go into the roaring downtown
district and find
work. A fur importer had once offered him a place as a driver. He would find
him tomorrow and ask for the position. He would be somebody in the world. He
would—
Soapy felt a hand lay on his arm. He looked quickly around at the broad face
of a policeman.
"What are you doing here?" asked the officer.
"Nothing," said Soapy.
"Then come along," said the policeman.
"Three months on the island," said the magistrate in the police
court the next morning.
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