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.

蘇比躺在麥迪遜廣場的長椅上輾轉不安。當雁群在夜空高聲鳴叫，當缺少海豹皮大衣的女人漸漸對丈夫溫存，當蘇比在公園的長椅上輾轉不安，你就會知道冬天就要到了。

一片枯葉飄落在蘇比的膝蓋上。那是嚴寒的名片。嚴寒對麥迪遜廣場的常住居民非常友好，每年來臨總要打聲招呼。在十字街頭，他把名片交給“戶外大廈”的門房“北風”，以便那里的居民作好準備。

蘇比意識到，為了應對即將來臨的寒冬，該是他下決心組成一個單人籌備委員會的時候了。所以，他在長椅上輾轉不安。

蘇比過冬的抱負并不算最高。他既不想去地中海巡游，也不想去南方昏錯欲睡曬太陽，更沒想過到維蘇威海灣游蕩。他夢想的只要在島上待三個月。衣食無憂的三個月，還有志趣相投的人陪伴，免受“北風”和警察的侵擾，對蘇比來說這就是夢寐以求的事兒。

多年來，殷勤好客的布萊克韋爾島監獄一直是蘇比過冬的場所。就像運氣比他好的紐約人每年冬天買票去棕櫚灘和里維埃拉一樣，蘇比也要為一年一度逃奔島上作些準備。現在又到時候了。昨晚，他睡在古老廣場噴水池旁的長椅上，用三份安息日的報紙分別墊進上衣，包住腳踝，裹住膝蓋，還是沒能抵擋住嚴寒的侵襲。因此，布萊克韋爾島的影像又馬上鮮明地浮現在蘇比的腦海里。他詛咒那些以慈善名義對城鎮窮苦人所設的布施。在蘇比看來，法律比救濟更寬厚。他有的是地方可去，有市政府辦的，有救濟機關辦的，各式各樣的組織，他都可以去混吃混住，簡單度日。然而，要靠施舍過活，對蘇比這樣一位靈魂高傲的人來說，簡直難以忍受。從慈善機構的手里接受任何一點好處，固然不必破費，但你必須遭受精神上的屈辱。正如愷撒對待布魯圖一樣，凡事有利必有弊——要睡上慈善機構的床，先得被迫洗個澡；要吃上一片面包，個人的隱私就會被問個底朝天。所以，還是做法律的客人好。盡管法律照章辦事，但至少不會過分干涉正人君子的私事。

已經決定去島上，蘇比立馬開始準備。有許多簡單辦法可以用，最開心的莫過于到某家豪華餐廳大模大樣美餐一頓，然后說明自己身無分文之后，便悄無聲息地被交到警察手里。剩下的，自有一個與人方便的地方法官來安排。

蘇比從長椅上站起身，走出廣場，跨過百老匯大街和第五大街的交匯處那片瀝青鋪就的平坦路面，拐向百老匯大街，在一家燈火輝煌的餐館前停下來。這里每晚都是美酒、華服和上流人物匯聚的地方。

蘇比對自己上半身的衣著有信心。他刮過臉，上衣還算體面，那個有活扣的黑領結也挺干凈，那是感恩節時一位女教士送的。只要他能走到餐館的桌子旁而不被人猜疑，就算成功了。他暴露在桌子上面的部分不會引起侍者的疑心。一只烤野鴨就可以了，蘇比想——再來一瓶夏布利酒、一份卡門貝干酪、一小杯咖啡和一支雪茄。一美元一支的雪茄就行了。總價不能太高，以免遭到餐館老板狠心的報復；然而，吃下去的肉可以讓他在去冬季避難所的路上感到飽食的快樂。

然而，蘇比的腳剛踏進門，領班侍者的目光便落到了他那舊褲子和破皮鞋上。強壯而利索的手把他推了個轉身，悄無聲息快速地將他搡到了人行道上，拯救了那只險遭毒手的可憐的野鴨。

蘇比離開了百老匯大街。看來自己設計的那套辦法行不通。要進監獄，還得另打主意。

在第六大街的一個拐角處，燈火璀璨、陳設精巧的大玻璃櫥窗內的商品引人注目。蘇比撿起一塊鵝卵石，砸穿了玻璃窗。人們從轉彎處奔來，領頭的就是一位警察。蘇比站定不動，兩手插在褲袋里，一看到黃紐扣就露出了微笑。

“砸玻璃的人在哪里？”警官氣急敗壞地問道。

“難道你看不出這事兒跟我有關嗎？”蘇比說，盡管不無嘲諷，但很友好，好像在迎接好運的到來似的。

警察打心里就沒把蘇比看成作案對象。砸櫥窗的人不會呆在現場與法律的走卒攀談；他們早就溜之大吉了。警察看到半條街前面有個人正跑著去趕一輛公車。他抽出警棍，追了上去。蘇比心里充滿憎惡，垂頭喪氣地走開了。兩次都不成功。

街對面有一家不大起眼的餐館。那是一個可以填飽肚子、又不花多少錢的地方。那里的碗具粗糙，空氣混濁，湯淡而無味，餐巾薄透。蘇比穿著那令人詛咒的鞋子和暴露身分的褲子跨進餐館，沒有受到任何阻攔。他在一張桌子前坐下，吃了牛排、煎餅、炸面餅圈和餡餅，然后向侍者透露了真相，說他一分錢也沒有。

“快去叫警察，”蘇比說。“別讓老子等著。”

“對你這種人用不著找叫警察，”侍者說，聲音膩得像奶油蛋糕，眼紅得好似曼哈頓雞尾酒中的櫻桃。“來，阿康！”

兩個侍者干凈利落地把蘇比拽出門外，他的左耳貼地倒在又冷又硬的人行道上。蘇比一點點艱難地從地上爬起來，好似木匠打開折尺一樣，拍掉衣服上的塵土。被捕的愿望僅僅是一個美好的夢想，那個島仿佛非常遙遠。隔著兩個門的藥店門前站著一名警察，他笑了笑，便沿街走去。

走過五個街區后，蘇比設法被捕的勇氣又回來了。這次的機會看來是十拿九穩，必贏無疑。一位衣著簡樸討人喜歡的年輕女子站在櫥窗前，正興趣盎然地地盯著陳列在里面的刮臉用杯子和墨水瓶架；而兩碼開外，一名身材高大、神情嚴肅的警察正倚靠在水龍頭上。

蘇比的計劃是裝扮成一個下流討厭的“浪蕩鬼”。他的受害者文雅嫻靜，又有一位忠于職守的警察在旁邊，這足以使他相信，馬上他就能痛痛快快地被逮住，在島上的小安樂窩里過冬就有保證了。

蘇比拉正了正女教士送給他的活扣領結，拽出皺縮的襯衣袖口，帽子往后一歪，側身向那女子挨過去。他對她擠眉弄眼，嘴里哼哼哈哈，嬉皮笑臉地擺出一副“浪蕩鬼”卑鄙下流的模樣。蘇比從眼角瞥見那個警察正死死盯住他。年輕女子移開了幾步，又接著專心看櫥窗里刮胡子用的杯子。蘇比跟過去，大膽地靠近她，舉了舉帽子，說：

“啊來呀，美人兒！想不想到我那里去玩玩？”

警察還在盯著。受人糾纏的年輕女子只需舉手一招，他就可以毫無疑問地被送到安身島上了。他已經想象出了警察局的舒適溫暖。年輕女人轉向蘇比，伸出一只手，抓住了他的上衣袖口。

“要是你肯請我喝啤酒的話，當然可以，邁克，”她興高采烈地說，“要不是那個警察盯著，我早就跟你搭腔了。”

年輕女人像常青藤攀住橡樹般靠住他。蘇比從警察身邊走過，心里懊喪不已。看來命中注定他該是自由的。

一到拐彎處，他甩掉女伴，撒腿就跑，一口氣跑到一個地方，這里整夜都有最明亮的燈光、最輕松的心情、最輕率的誓言和最輕快的歌聲。

那些身著皮裘的女人和身披大氅的男人在凜冽的寒風中歡天喜地走來走去。一陣突然的恐懼抓住了蘇比，他感到似乎有一種可怕的魔力使他免于被捕。這個念頭令他感到有點兒心驚肉跳；然而，當看見一個警察在燈火通明的劇院門前大模大樣地巡邏時，他立刻抓到了“擾亂治安”這根救命稻草。

在人行道上，蘇比聲嘶力竭叫喊一些亂七八糟的醉話。他又跳又吼又叫，使出渾身解數，攪亂一切。

警察飛旋著警棍，背對蘇比，向一位市民解釋。

“這個耶魯小子在慶祝勝利。他們跟哈特福德學院賽球，讓對方吃了個鵝蛋。有點兒喧鬧，但不礙事。我們接到指示，不管他們。”

蘇比悶悶不樂，停止了無用的胡鬧。難道就永遠沒有警察對他下手嗎？在他的想象中，那島嶼簡直成了可望不可及的世外桃源。他扣好單薄的上衣，以便抵擋住刺骨的寒風。

雪茄煙店里，蘇比看見一位衣冠楚楚的男子正對著火頭點煙。那人進店時，把絲綢雨傘靠在了門邊。蘇比跨進店門，拿起雨傘，慢慢悠悠揚長而去。點煙人匆匆追了出來。

“那是我的傘，”他厲聲說道。

“噢，是嗎？”蘇比冷笑著說，在小偷的罪名上加上了侮辱罪。“好哇，那你為什么不叫警察？沒錯，我拿了。你的傘！為什么不叫警察呢？拐角那里就站著一個。”

傘主放慢了腳步。蘇比也慢了下來。他有一種預感，命運會再次跟他作對。那位警察好奇地瞧著他們倆。

“當然，”傘主說，“那是——噢，你知道有時會出現這類誤會——我——要是這傘是你的，我希望你會原諒我——我是今天早上在餐廳撿到的——要是你認出是你的，那么——我希望你會——”

“當然是我的，”蘇比惡狠狠地說。

前傘主退去。那位警察急忙跑去攙扶一個身穿晚禮服的高個金發女人穿過街道，前面距離兩個街區正駛來一輛轎車。

蘇比向東走，穿過一條因翻修而破損的街道。他忿忿不平地把雨傘扔進一個坑里。他詛咒那些頭戴鋼盔、手拎警棍的家伙。他一心想落入他們的手里，他們卻好像把他當成了不會出錯的國王。

最后，蘇比來到一條通往東區的街上，這里燈光暗淡，嘈雜聲也弱了些。

他的方向是麥迪遜廣場。回家的本能把他帶向那里，盡管他的家只是公園里的一張長椅。

然而，在一個十分安靜的拐角處，蘇比停住了腳步。這里是一座古色古香、帶有山墻的教堂，已經有些年久失修，柔和的燈光透過紫羅蘭色的玻璃窗映射出來。毫無疑問，是風琴師正在為即將到來的安息日加緊練習圣歌。

悠揚悅耳的琴聲飄進蘇比的耳朵，他靠在螺旋形的鐵欄桿上聽得入神。

月亮在上，皎潔安詳；街上的行人和車輛寥寥無幾；屋檐下的燕雀在睡夢中發出幾聲啁啾——這里有著鄉村教堂墓地般的氛圍。風琴師悠揚的琴聲讓蘇比的腳步無法從鐵欄桿旁移開；當他生活中擁有母愛、玫瑰、抱負、朋友以及純潔的思想和整潔的衣服時，他對這一切非常熟悉。

此時此刻，蘇比敏感的心境跟古老教堂的氛圍交織在一起，使他的靈魂突然出現了奇妙的變化。他驚恐地意識到了自己已經墜入的深淵，意識到了構成生命那些墮落的歲月、可恥的欲念、破滅的希望、受損的才能和卑鄙的動機。

一時間，他的內心對這種新奇的感受產生了深刻變化。一股強烈的瞬間沖動，促使他要與坎坷人生進行抗爭。他要把自己拉出泥潭；他要重新做人；他要征服已經控制自己的邪惡。時間還不晚；他還算年輕；他要再現當年的雄心壯志，去不懈追求。肅穆悠揚的管風琴曲在他內心深處掀起了一場革命。明天，他就去鬧市找一份工作。一個皮貨進口商曾叫他去開車。明天就去找他把這份差事應下來。他要堂堂正正活在世上，他要——蘇比覺得有一只手按在了他的胳膊上。他迅速轉過頭，一位寬臉警察出現在了他面前。

“你在這里干什么？”警察問。

“沒干什么，”蘇比答道。

“那就跟我走吧，”警察說。

“布萊克韋爾島，三個月，”第二天上午，警庭的法官宣判道。