“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.  He arose, joint by joint, as a carpenter’s rule opens, and beat the dust from his 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 courage permitted him to woo capture again.  This time the opportunity presented what he fatuously termed to himself a “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 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 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 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, 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 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.”