Until five years ago, said the policeman. It was torn down then.
The man in the doorway struck a match and lit his cigar. The light showed a pale, square-jawed face with keen eyes, and a little white scar near his right eyebrow. His scarf-pin was a large diamond, oddly set.
Twenty years ago to-night, said the man, I dined here at Big Joe Bradys with Jimmy Wells, my best chum, and the finest chap in the world. He and I were raised here in New York, just like two brothers, together. I was eighteen and Jimmy was twenty. The next morning I was to start for the West to make my fortune. You couldnt have dragged Jimmy out of New York; he thought it was the only place on earth. Well, we agreed that night that we would meet here again exactly twenty years from that date and time, no matter what our conditions might be or from what distance we might have to come. We figured that in twenty years each of us ought to have our destiny worked out and our fortunes made, whatever they were going to be.
It sounds pretty interesting, said the policeman. Rather a long time between meets, though, it seems to me. Havent you heard from your friend since you left?
Well, yes, for a time we corresponded, said the other. But after a year or two we lost track of each other. You see, the West is a pretty big proposition, and I kept hustling around over it pretty lively. But I know Jimmy will meet me here if hes alive, for he always was the truest, staunchest old chap in the world. Hell never forget. I came a thousand miles to stand in this door to-night, and its worth it if my old partner turns up.
The waiting man pulled out a handsome watch, the lids of it set with small diamonds.
Three minutes to ten, he announced. It was exactly ten oclock when we parted here at the restaurant door.
Did pretty well out West, didnt you? asked the policeman.
You bet! I hope Jimmy has done half as well. He was a kind of plodder, though, good fellow as he was. Ive had to compete with some of the sharpest wits going to get my pile. A man gets in a groove in New York. It takes the West to put a razor-edge on him.
The policeman twirled his club and took a step or two.
Ill be on my way. Hope your friend comes around all right. Going to call time on him sharp?
I should say not! said the other. Ill give him half an hour at least. If Jimmy is alive on earth hell be here by that time. So long, officer.
Good-night, sir, said the policeman, passing on along his beat, trying doors as he went.
There was now a fine, cold drizzle falling, and the wind had risen from its uncertain puffs into a steady blow. The few foot passengers astir in that quarter hurried dismally and silently along with coat collars turned high and pocketed hands. And in the door of the hardware store the man who had come a thousand miles to fill an appointment, uncertain almost to absurdity, with the friend of his youth, smoked his cigar and waited.
About twenty minutes he waited, and then a tall man in a long overcoat, with collar turned up to his ears, hurried across from the opposite side of the street. He went directly to the waiting man.
Is that you, Bob? he asked, doubtfully.
Is that you, Jimmy Wells? cried the man in the door.
Bless my heart! exclaimed the new arrival, grasping both the others hands with his own. Its Bob, sure as fate. I was certain Id find you here if you were still in existence. Well, well, well! twenty years is a long time. The old restaurants gone, Bob; I wish it had lasted, so we could have had another dinner there. How has the West treated you, old man?
Bully; it has given me everything I asked it for. Youve changed lots, Jimmy. I never thought you were so tall by two or three inches.
Bully; it has given me everything I asked it for. Youve changed lots, Jimmy. I never thought you were so tall by two or three inches.
Oh, I grew a bit after I was twenty.
Doing well in New York, Jimmy?
Moderately. I have a position in one of the city departments. Come on, Bob; well go around to a place I know of, and have a good long talk about old times.
The two men started up the street, arm in arm. The man from the West, his egotism enlarged by success, was beginning to outline the history of his career. The other, submerged in his overcoat, listened with interest.
At the corner stood a drug store, brilliant with electric lights. When they came into this glare each of them turned simultaneously to gaze upon the others face.
The man from the West stopped suddenly and released his arm.
Youre not Jimmy Wells, he snapped. Twenty years is a long time, but not long enough to change a mans nose from a Roman to a pug.
It sometimes changes a good man into a bad one, said the tall man. Youve been under arrest for ten minutes, Silky Bob. Chicago thinks you may have dropped over our way and wires us she wants to have a chat with you. Going quietly, are you? Thats sensible. Now, before we go on to the station heres a note I was asked to hand you. You may read it here at the window. Its from Patrolman[70] Wells.
The man from the West unfolded the little piece of paper handed him. His hand was steady when he began to read, but it trembled a little by the time he had finished. The note was rather short.
Bob: I was at the appointed place on time. When you struck the match to light your cigar I saw it was the face of the man wanted in Chicago. Somehow I couldnt do it myself, so I went around and got a plain clothes man[71] to do the job.
JIMMY.The Cop and the Anthem
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 Soapys lap. That was Jack Frosts 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.
Soapys 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[72]. Three months on the Island was what his soul craved. Three months of assured board and bed and congenial company, safe from Boreas[73] and bluecoats[74], seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable.
For years the hospitable Blackwells[75] had been his winter quarters. Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to Palm Beach and the Riviera[76] 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 Soapys mind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the citys dependents. In Soapys 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 Soapys 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[77] had his Brutus[78], 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 gentlemans 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 waiters mind. A roasted mallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing with a bottle of Chablis[79], and then Camembert[80], 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 waiters 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[81] 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.