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 café，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 café 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 cobble-stone and dashed it through the glass. People came running round the corner,a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still,with his hands in his pockets,and smiled at the sight of brass buttons.