Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement twowaiters pitched Soapy. He arose， joint by joint， as acarpenter’s rule opens， and beat the dust from his clothes.
Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The Island seemed veryfar away. A policeman who stood before a drug store twodoors away laughed and walked down the street.
Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permittedhim to woo capture again. This time the opportunitypresented what he fatuously termed to himself a “cinch.” Ayoung woman of a modest and pleasing guise was standingbefore a show window gazing with sprightly interest at itsdisplay of shaving mugs and inkstands， and two yards fromthe window a large policeman of severe demeanour leanedagainst a water plug.
It was Soapy’s design to assume the role of the despicableand execrated “masher.” The refined and elegant appearanceof his victim and the contiguity of the conscientious copencouraged him to believe that he would soon feel thepleasant official clutch upon his arm that would insure hiswinter 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 akilling cant and sidled toward the young woman. He madeeyes at her， was taken with sudden coughs and “hems，”
smiled， smirked and went brazenly through the impudentand contemptible litany of the “masher.” With half an eyeSoapy saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly. Theyoung woman moved away a few steps， and again bestowedher absorbed attention upon the shaving mugs. Soapyfollowed， boldly stepping to her side， raised his hat and said：
“Ah there， Bedelia！ Don’t you want to come and play inmy yard？”
The policeman was still looking. The persecuted youngwoman had but to beckon a finger and Soapy would bepractically en route for his insular haven. Already heimagined he could feel the cozy warmth of the stationhouse.
The young woman faced him and， stretching out ahand， caught Soapy’s coat sleeve.
“Sure， Mike，” she said joyfully， “if you’ll blow me to apail of suds. I’d have spoke to you sooner， but the cop waswatching.”
With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to hisoak Soapy walked past the policeman overcome withgloom. 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 thelightest streets， hearts， vows and librettos. Women in fursand men in greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry air. Asudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantmenthad rendered him immune to arrest. The thought broughta little of panic upon it， and when he came upon anotherpoliceman lounging grandly in front of a transplendenttheatre he caught at the immediate straw of “disorderlyconduct.”
On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberishat the top of his harsh voice. He danced， howled， ravedand otherwise disturbed the welkin.
The policeman twirled his club， turned his back to Soapyand remarked to a citizen.
“’Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin’ the goose egg theygive to the Hartford College. Noisy； but no harm. We’veinstructions to lave them be.”
Disconsolate， Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Wouldnever a policeman lay hands on him？ In his fancy theIsland seemed an unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned histhin coat against the chilling wind.