In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting acigar at a swinging light. His silk umbrella he had set bythe door on entering. Soapy stepped inside， secured theumbrella and sauntered off with it slowly. The man at thecigar 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. Yourumbrella！ Why don’t you call a cop？ There stands one on thecorner.”
The umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy didlikewise， with a presentiment that luck would again runagainst him. The policeman looked at the two curiously.
“Of course，” said the umbrella man— “that is—well， youknow how these mistakes occur—I—if it’s your umbrellaI hope you’ll excuse me—I picked it up this morning ina restaurant—If you recognise it as yours， why—I hopeyou’ll—”
“Of course it’s mine，” said Soapy， viciously.
The ex-umbrella man retreated. The policeman hurriedto assist a tall blonde in an opera cloak across the street infront of a street car that was approaching two blocks away.
Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged byimprovements. He hurled the umbrella wrathfully intoan excavation. He muttered against the men who wearhelmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall intotheir clutches， they seemed to regard him as a king whocould do no wrong.
At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the eastwhere the glitter and turmoil was but faint. He set his facedown this toward Madison Square， for the homing instinctsurvives even when the home is a park bench.
But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to astandstill. Here was an old church， quaint and ramblingand gabled. Through one violet-stained window a softlight glowed， where， no doubt， the organist loiteredover the keys， making sure of his mastery of the comingSabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy’s earssweet music that caught and held him transfixed againstthe convolutions of the iron fence.
The moon was above， lustrous and serene； vehiclesand pedestrians were few； sparrows twittered sleepily inthe eaves—for a little while the scene might have beena country churchyard. And the anthem that the organistplayed cemented Soapy to the iron fence， for he had knownit well in the days when his life contained such thingsas mothers and roses and ambitions and friends andimmaculate thoughts and collars.
The conjunction of Soapy’s receptive state of mind andthe influences about the old church wrought a sudden andwonderful change in his soul. He viewed with swift horrorthe pit into which he had tumbled， the degraded days，unworthy desires， dead hopes， wrecked faculties and basemotives that made up his existence.
And also in a moment his heart responded thrillinglyto this novel mood. An instantaneous and strong impulsemoved him to battle with his desperate fate. He would pullhimself out of the mire； he would make a man of himselfagain； he would conquer the evil that had taken possessionof him. There was time； he was comparatively young yet；he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursuethem without faltering. Those solemn but sweet organnotes had set up a revolution in him. To-morrow he wouldgo into the roaring downtown district and find work. A furimporter had once offered him a place as driver. He wouldfind him to-morrow and ask for the position. He would besomebody in the world. He would—
Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quicklyaround 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 inthe Police Court the next morning.