“Where’s the man that done that?” inquired the officer excitedly. 　　

“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. Men who smash windows do not remain to parley with the law’s minions. They take to their heels. The policeman saw a man halfway down the block running to catch a car. With drawn club he joined in the pursuit. Soapy,with disgust in his heart,loafed along,twice unsuccessful. 　　

On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of no great pretensions. It catered to large appetites and modest purses. Its crockery and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin. Into this place Soapy took his accusive shoes and tell-tale trousers without challenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak,flap-jacks,doughnuts,and pie. And then to the waiter he betrayed the fact that the minutest coin and himself were strangers. 　　

“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.