Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about accomplishing his desire.  There were many easy ways of doing this.  The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive 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 and across the level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together.  Up Broadway he turned, and halted at a glittering cafe, where are gathered together nightly the choicest products of the grape, the silkworm and the protoplasm.

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, 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 cafe 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 conspicuous.  Soapy took 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 buttons.

“Where’s the man 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 street was a restaurant of no great pretensions.  It catered to large appetites and modest purses.  Its crockery and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin.  Into this 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 strangers.