The Cop and the Anthem

by O. Henry

On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily. When wild geese
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 cognisant 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 there
were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific Southern skies
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 big 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 Caesar 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 cafe, 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 cafe
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 around
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 telltale trousers without challenge. At a table he sat and consumed
beefsteak, flapjacks, doughnuts and pie. And then to the waiter be 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 water plug.

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 insure 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 cozy 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 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.
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 toward 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 downtown
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.

The Cop and the Anthem  was featured as  The Short Story of the Day on  Tue, Sep 11, 2018

                 
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