警察与赞美诗英语原文

英语原文

The Cop and the Anthem

by O

。

Henry

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 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 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. H

e 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 Cesar 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 a

ffairs.

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

cobble- stone

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

halfway 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, flap-jacks, 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 water-plug.

It

was

Soapy’s

design

to

assume

the

rule

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 of the right little, tight little isle.

Soapy straightened the lady missionary’s ready

-made tie, dragged his shrinking cuffs into the

open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled toward the young women. He made eyes at her, was

taken with sudden coughs and “hems,” smiled, smirked, and went b

razenly through the impudent