[adapted]

by
O. Henry

On his bench in Madison Square, Soapy shifted uncomfortably. When wild geese call loudly at night, when women without warm coats start being nicer to their husbands, and when Soapy starts moving uneasily on his park bench, it is a sure sign that winter is coming.

A dry leaf fell into Soapy’s lap. That was Jack Frost’s card, a warning that cold days were near. Jack Frost is kind to the regular people of Madison Square, giving them a fair notice before winter arrives. At the four corners of the streets, he passes his message to the North Wind, the servant of the great outdoors, so that those who live outside can prepare for the cold.

Soapy realized that it was time for him to make a plan to survive the winter. That was why he shifted uneasily on his bench.

Soapy’s winter dreams were not fancy. He did not dream of trips to warm places, of sleeping under the soft southern sun, or of floating in a boat near beautiful Italy.

What he wanted was three months on the Island. Three months of guaranteed food, a bed, and good company. A place where he would be safe from the cold winds and the police. To Soapy, this was the best thing he could hope for.

For years, Blackwell’s Island had been Soapy’s winter home. Just as wealthy New Yorkers bought tickets to Palm Beach or the Riviera for the winter, Soapy had his own simple plan for his yearly trip to the Island. And now, the time had come.

The night before, he had tried to keep warm by covering himself with three Sunday newspapers—one under his coat, one around his ankles, and one on his lap. But still, the cold had reached him as he slept on his bench near the fountain in the old park. So now, the Island seemed like the best and most timely choice.

Soapy refused to go to charity shelters where the city provided food and lodging for the poor and homeless. He believed that the Law was kinder than charity. There were many institutions, both government-run and privately funded, where he could go for a place to sleep and a meal. But Soapy was too proud to accept charity.

To receive help, a man had to pay for it—not with money, but with his dignity. Every free bed required a bath, every loaf of bread came with endless personal questions. To Soapy, this was humiliating. That was why he preferred to be arrested. The law had rules, but it did not ask too many questions about a gentleman’s private life. Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, immediately began planning how to get arrested. There were many easy ways to do this.

The best and most pleasant way was to eat a fancy meal at an expensive restaurant and then, after admitting he had no money, be handed over quietly to a policeman. A kind judge would take care of the rest.

Soapy left his bench and walked out of the park, crossing the wide streets where Broadway and Fifth Avenue meet. He turned up Broadway and stopped in front of a bright, fancy café, a place where, every night, people enjoyed the best wine, the finest silk clothes, and the most elegant food. Soapy felt confident from the bottom button of his vest to the top of his head. He was clean-shaven, his coat looked decent, and he wore a neat black tie, which had been given to him by a kind missionary lady on Thanksgiving.

If he could enter the restaurant and sit at a table without being noticed, his plan would succeed. The top half of his body, which the waiter would see above the table, would look respectable and not raise any suspicions.

He thought about ordering a delicious roasted mallard duck, with a bottle of Chablis wine, followed by Camembert cheese, a small cup of coffee, and a cigar. A one-dollar cigar would be good enough. The total cost of the meal would not be too high, so the restaurant manager would not be too angry when he refused to pay. But it would still be a big enough meal to fill his stomach before his trip to the Island.

But just as Soapy stepped inside the restaurant, the head waiter noticed his torn trousers and old shoes. Without a word, strong hands grabbed him, turned him around, and quickly pushed him back onto the sidewalk. The poor mallard duck had been saved from its unfortunate fate.

Soapy walked away from Broadway. It seemed that his path to the Island would not involve a fancy meal. He needed to find another way to get arrested.

At a corner on Sixth Avenue, bright electric lights and a beautifully arranged store window caught his eye. The glass window shone under the lights, displaying expensive items behind it. Soapy picked up a cobblestone and threw it hard at the glass, shattering it. The sound echoed, and people came running around the corner, led by a policeman. Soapy stood still, with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of the officer’s brass buttons.

“Where’s the man who did this?” the policeman asked urgently.

“Don’t you think I might have had something to do with it?” Soapy said, his voice both sarcastic and cheerful, as if he were greeting good luck.

The policeman did not even consider Soapy as a suspect. People who break windows do not stay and talk to the police—they run away. The officer noticed a man running down the block, trying to catch a streetcar. Thinking he had found the real criminal, the policeman pulled out his club and chased after him. Soapy, now failing for the second time, walked away in disappointment.

Across the street, he saw a small, simple restaurant. It was a place for people with big appetites but little money. The plates were thick, the air was heavy, the soup was thin, and the napkins were thinner. Soapy walked in without trouble, even with his worn-out shoes and ragged trousers. He sat down and ate a full meal—beefsteak, pancakes, doughnuts, and pie. Then, when the waiter brought the bill, Soapy calmly admitted that he had no money at all.

“Now, hurry up and call a cop,” Soapy said. “And don’t keep a gentleman waiting.”

“No cop for you,” said the waiter. His voice was smooth like butter, but his eyes were sharp like a cherry in a cocktail. “Hey, Con!”

The two waiters picked up Soapy and threw him out onto the hard sidewalk. He landed neatly on his left ear. Slowly, he got up, bending and straightening his joints like a folding ruler. He brushed the dust off his clothes and sighed. Getting arrested was starting to feel like a distant dream. The Island seemed very far away. A policeman stood near a drugstore just a few steps away. He laughed at what had happened and then walked down the street, not even looking at Soapy.

Soapy walked five more blocks before he finally gathered the courage to try again. This time, he saw an opportunity that he believed was a sure thing. A young woman with a modest and pleasant appearance was standing in front of a shop window, looking at shaving mugs and inkstands with lively interest. Just a few steps away, a big policeman with a serious expression leaned against a fire hydrant.

Soapy came up with a new plan. He would pretend to be a “masher”—a man who bothered women on the street. It was a disgusting act, and surely the officer nearby would not allow it. The young woman’s elegant look and the close presence of the strict policeman made Soapy sure that soon, he would feel the policeman’s firm grip on his arm. That would be his ticket to the Island.

Soapy straightened his tie, which had been given to him by the lady missionary. He pulled out his cuffs so they would show and tilted his hat at a stylish angle. Then, he moved sideways toward the young woman. He winked at her, coughed, cleared his throat, smiled, and made silly faces. He boldly acted in the rude and shameless way of a “masher”—a man who bothered women on the street. With half an eye, Soapy noticed that the policeman was watching him closely. The young woman stepped away a little but then continued looking at the shaving mugs in the shop window. Soapy followed her, confidently stepping up to her side. He tipped his hat and said:

“Ah there, Bedelia! Don’t you want to come and play in my yard?”

The policeman was still watching. Soapy felt hopeful—if the young woman showed even the slightest sign of distress, he would be on his way to the Island in no time. He could already imagine the warmth of the police station. But then, the young woman turned to face him, grabbed his coat sleeve, and said happily:

“Sure, Mike! If you’ll buy me a beer. I would have talked to you earlier, but the cop was watching.”

With the young woman holding onto his arm like ivy clinging to a tree, Soapy walked past the policeman, feeling defeated. It seemed that he was trapped in freedom—he couldn’t even get arrested.

At the next corner, he shook off the woman and ran away. He stopped in a busy area, where the streets were bright, and people’s hearts, promises, and love stories were just as light and cheerful. Women in warm fur coats and men in heavy greatcoats walked happily through the cold winter air. Suddenly, a terrible thought struck Soapy. What if some strange magic had made him immune to arrest? The idea filled him with panic. As he walked past a grand theater, he saw a policeman standing proudly in front of it. Soapy grabbed at his last chance—he would try to get arrested for causing a public disturbance.

On the sidewalk, Soapy started shouting nonsense at the top of his voice. He danced wildly, howled, raved, and made a scene, hoping to attract attention.

The policeman twirled his club, then turned away from Soapy. He spoke to a man nearby and said:

“Just another Yale student celebrating the big win against Hartford College. A bit loud, but harmless. We’ve been told to leave them alone.”

Feeling hopeless, Soapy gave up his pointless screaming. Would no policeman ever arrest him? In his imagination, the Island now seemed like a paradise he could never reach. Shivering, he buttoned his thin coat against the icy wind.

Inside a cigar store, Soapy saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar under a swinging light. The man had left his silk umbrella by the door when he walked in. Soapy stepped inside, picked up the umbrella, and walked away slowly, pretending it was his. The man quickly followed him.

“My umbrella,” he said firmly.

“Oh, is it?” Soapy replied with a sneer, adding insult to his small crime. “Well, why don’t you call a policeman? I took it. Your umbrella! Why don’t you call a cop? There’s one standing right there on the corner.”

The umbrella owner slowed down, and Soapy did the same, already expecting that his bad luck would continue. The policeman looked at them curiously.

“Well,” the man said, “you know how these mistakes happen… I—I picked this umbrella up in a restaurant this morning. If it’s really yours, I hope you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course it’s mine,” said Soapy angrily.

The umbrella man quickly backed away. At the same time, the policeman turned away, hurrying to help a tall blonde woman in an opera cloak cross the street—even though the streetcar was still two blocks away.

Soapy walked east through a street full of construction. Angrily, he threw the umbrella into a hole in the ground. He muttered to himself about the policemen. The very men who were supposed to arrest him were treating him like a king—as if he could do nothing wrong, just because he wanted to be arrested.

After a while, Soapy reached a quieter avenue to the east, where the bright lights and busy noise of the city were faint in the distance. He turned toward Madison Square, because even a man with no home still feels the instinct to return somewhere—and for him, that place was a park bench.

But on an unusually quiet corner, Soapy stopped walking. In front of him stood an old church, with strange and beautiful architecture. It had many gables and twists in its design. A soft light shone through one of its violet-colored windows. Inside, the organist was probably practicing for the Sunday service. A sweet, gentle tune drifted out into the street and held Soapy frozen against the iron fence.

Above him, the moon shone softly. There were few cars or people passing by. Small sparrows chirped sleepily in the eaves. For a moment, it felt like a quiet country churchyard, far away from the noise of the city. And the hymn that the organist played seemed to glue Soapy to the fence, because he knew that song well. It was from a time long ago, when his life still had mothers and roses, dreams and friends, good thoughts, and clean collars.

The mix of Soapy’s thoughtful mood and the peaceful atmosphere of the old church caused a sudden and powerful change in his heart. In an instant, he felt deep horror at the life he had been living. He saw how far he had fallen—the wasted days, the shameful desires, the lost hopes, the damaged mind, and the selfish choices that had shaped his existence.

And just as quickly, his heart responded to this new feeling. A strong and sudden urge filled him—the desire to fight against his hopeless life. He would lift himself out of the dirt. He would become a man again. He would defeat the bad habits that had taken over his life. There was still time; he was not too old. He would bring back his lost dreams and chase them without giving up. The solemn but beautiful music from the church organ had awakened something in him. Tomorrow, he would go to the busy downtown area and find a job. A fur importer had once offered him work as a driver. He would find that man again and ask for the job. He would become somebody in this world. He would—

Suddenly, Soapy felt a hand on his arm. He turned quickly and found himself face to face with a policeman.

“What are you doing here?” the officer asked.

“Nothing,” Soapy said.

“Then come along,” said the policeman.

“Three months on the Island,” said the magistrate in the Police Court the next morning.