O. Henry

                  William Sydney Porter

                      1867 - 1910

                  The Cop and the Anthem


   On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily. When wild 
goose honk high of nights, and when women without sealskin coats grow 
kind to their husbands, and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in 
the park, you may know that winter is near at hand.
   A dead leaf fell in Soapy's lap. That was Jack Frost's card. Jack 
is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square, and gives fair 
warning of his annual call. At the corners of four streets he hands 
his pasteboard to the North Wind, footman of the mansion of All 
Outdoors, so that the inhabitants thereof may make ready.
   Soapy's mind became cognizant of the fact that the time had come 
for him to resolve himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means 
to provide against the coming rigour. And therefore he moved uneasily 
on his bench.
   The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest. In 
them were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific 
Southern skies or drifting in the Vesuvian Bay. Three months on the 
Island was what his soul craved. Three months of assured board and bed 
and congenial company, safe from Boreas and bluecoats, seemed to Soapy 
the essence of things desirable.
   For years the hospitable Blackwell's had been his winter quarters. 
Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets 
to Palm Beach and the Riviera each winter, so Soapy had made his 
humble arrangements for his annual hegira to the Island. And now the 
time was come. On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers, 
distributed beneath his coat, about his ankles and over his lap, had 
failed to repulse the cold as he slept on his bench near the spurting 
fountain in the ancient square. So the Island loomed large and timely 
in Soapy's mind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity 
for the city's dependents. In Soapy's opinion the Law was more benign 
than Philanthropy. There was an endless round of institutions, 
municipal and eleemosynary, on which he might set out and receive 
lodging and food accordant with the simple life. But to one of Soapy's 
proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered. If not in coin you 
must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit received at the 
hands of philanthropy. As Cæsar had his Brutus, every bed of 
charity must have its toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its 
compensation of a private and personal inquisition. Wherefore it is 
better to be a guest of the law, which, though conducted by rules, 
does not meddle unduly with a gentleman's private affairs.
   Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about 
accomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways of doing this. The 
pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant; and 
then, after declaring insolvency, be handed over quietly and without 
uproar to a policeman. An accommodating magistrate would do the rest.
   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 
cobblestone 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.
   `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 half-way 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, 
flapjacks, 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.
   Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo 
capture again. This time the opportunity presented what he fatuously 
termed to himself a `cinch'. A young woman of a modest and pleasing 
guise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly interest 
at its display of shaving-mugs and inkstands, and two yards from the 
window a large policeman of severe demeanour leaned against a 
waterplug.
   It was Soapy's design to assume the role of the despicable and 
execrated `masher'. The refined and elegant appearance of his victim 
and the contiguity of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe 
that he would soon feel the pleasant official clutch upon his arm that 
would ensure his winter quarters on the right little, tight little 
isle.
   Soapy straightened the lady missionary's readymade tie, dragged his 
shrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and 
sidled toward the young woman. He made eyes at her, was taken with 
sudden coughs and `hems', smiled, smirked, and went brazenly through 
the impudent and contemptible litany of the `masher'. With half an eye 
Soapy saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly. The young woman 
moved away a few steps, and again bestowed her absorbed attention upon 
the shaving-mugs. Soapy followed, boldly stepping to her side, raised 
his hat and said:
   `Ah there, Bedelia! Don't you want to come and play in my yard?'
   The policeman was still looking. The persecuted young woman had but 
to beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for 
his insular haven. Already he imagined he could feel the cosy warmth 
of the station-house. The young woman faced him and, stretching out a 
hand, caught Soapy's coat-sleeve.
   `Sure, Mike,' she said joyfully, `if you'll blow me to a pail of 
suds. I'd have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching.'
   With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy 
walked past the policeman overcome with gloom. 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 the lightest streets, hearts, 
vows, and librettos. Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily 
in the wintry air. A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful 
enchantment had rendered him immune to arrest. The thought brought a 
little of panic upon it, and when he came upon another policeman 
lounging grandly in front of a transplendent theatre he caught at the 
immediate straw of `disorderly conduct'.
   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 again 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 recognize 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.
   Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He 
hurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He muttered against 
the men who wear helmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall 
into their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king who could do 
no wrong.
   At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the 
glitter and turmoil was but faint. He set his face down this towards 
Madison Square, for the homing instinct survives even when the home is 
a park bench.
   But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill. Here 
was an old church, quaint and rambling and gabled. Through one violet-
stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist 
loitered over the keys, making sure of his mastery of the coming 
Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy's ears sweet music that 
caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of the iron 
fence.
   The moon was above, lustrous and serene; vehicles and pedestrians 
were few; sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves-for a little while 
the scene might have been a country churchyard. And the anthem that 
the organist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had known 
it well in the days when his life contained such things as mothers and 
roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and collars.
   The conjunction of Soapy's receptive state of mind and the 
influences about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change 
in his soul. He viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had 
tumbled, the degraded days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked 
faculties, and base motives that made up his existence.
   And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel 
mood. An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his 
desperate fate. He would pull himself out of the mire; he would make a 
man of himself again; he would conquer the evil that had taken 
possession of him. There was time; he was comparatively young yet; he 
would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without 
faltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution 
in him. To-morrow he would go into the roaring down-town district and 
find work. A fur importer had once offered him a place as driver. He 
would find him to-morrow and ask for the position. He would be 
somebody in the world. He would-
   Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly around into 
the broad face of a policeman.
   `What are you doin' here?' asked the officer.
   `Nothin',' said Soapy.
   `Then come along,' said the policeman.
   `Three months on the Island,' said the Magistrate in the Police 
Court the next morning.