The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest.
Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to Palm Beach and the Riviera each winter, so Soapy had made his humble arrangements for his annual hegira to the Island.
Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about accomplishing his desire.
Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together.
Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest upward.
But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the head waiter's eye fell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes.
Soapy took a cobblestone and dashed it through the glass.
"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.
Into this place Soapy took his accusive shoes and telltale trousers without challenge.
"Now, get busy and call a cop," said Soapy. "And don't keep a gentleman waiting."
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.
Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo capture again.
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.