Рассказы / Short Stories

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On his bench in Madison Square[1] Soapy moved uneasily. A dead leaf fell onto his arm. Winter was coming, and Soapy knew that he must make his plans. And therefore moved unhappily on his seat.

The ambitions of Soapy were not very high. He did not dream about Mediterranean cruises, or Southern skies. Three months on the Island was what his soul wished. Three months of assured board and bed[2] and congenial company seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable[3].

For years the hospitable prison had been his winter quarters. And now the time was come because, at night on his seat in the square, three newspapers did not keep out the cold.

So Soapy decided to go to prison, and at once began to try his first plan. It was usually easy. There were many easy ways of doing this. The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant. He ate dinner in an expensive restaurant. Then he told them he had no money and they called a policeman. Nice and easy, with no trouble.

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