On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of his harsh voice. He danced,howled,raved,and otherwise disturbed the welkin.

　　The policeman twirled his club,turned his back to Soapy and remarked to a citizen: “’Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin’ the goose egg they give to the Hartford College. Noisy; but no harm. We’ve instructions to lave them be.”

　　Disconsolate,Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Would never a policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind.

　　In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a swinging light. His silk umbrella he had set by the door on entering. Soapy stepped inside,secured the umbrella and sauntered off with it slowly. The man at the cigar light followed hastily.

　　“My umbrella,” he said sternly.

　　“Oh,is it?” sneered Soapy,adding insult to petit larceny. “Well,why don’t you call a policeman? I took it. Your umbrella! Why don’t you call a cop? There stands one on the corner.”

　　The umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy did likewise,with a presentiment that luck would run against him. The policeman looked at the two curiously.

　　“Of course,” said the umbrella man—“that is—well,you know how these mistakes occur—I—if it’s your umbrella I hope you’ll excuse me—I picked it up this morning in a restaurant—If you recognise it as yours,why—I hope you’ll—“

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

The ex-umbrella man retreated. The policeman hurried to assist a tall blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car that was approaching two blocks away.