The Cop and the Anthem
1
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
stopped at a luxurious cafe.
Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest
button of his vest upward. He was shaven, and his coat
was trim and his neat, black bow had been presented to
him by a lady missionary on Thanksgiving Day. If only
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 wine and then
some cheese, a cup of coffee and a cigar. One dollar
for the cigar would be enough. The total would not be
so high as to call forth any extreme of revenge from the
cafe management; and yet the meat would leave him
filled and happy for the journey to his winter island.
But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door,
the head-waiter's eye fell upon his tattered trousers
and decadent shoes. Strong and ready hands turned
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