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 him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the side-walk 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 easy one. Some other way of entering the limbo must be devised.
 At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly displayed wares behind plate-glass made a shop window attractive. Soapy took a stone and dashed it through the glass. People came running round the comer, a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass buttons.