Disconsolate， Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Would never a policeman lay hands on him？ In his fancy the Island seemed an unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind.
In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a swinging light. His silk umbrella he had set by the door on entering. Soapy stepped inside， secured the umbrella and sauntered off with it slowly. The man at the cigar 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. Your umbrella！ Why don’t you call a cop？ There stands one on the corner.”
The umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy did likewise， with a presentiment that luck would again run against him. The policeman looked at the two curiously.
“Of course，” said the umbrella man— “that is—well， you know how these mistakes occur—I—if it’s your umbrella I hope you’ll excuse me— I picked it up this morning in a restaurant—If you recognise it as yours， why—I hope you’ll—”
“Of course it’s mine，” said Soapy， viciously.
The exumbrella man retreated. The policeman hurried to assist a tall blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car that was approaching two blocks away.
Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He hurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He muttered against the men who wear helmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall into their clutches， they seemed to regard him as a king who could do no wrong.
At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the glitter and turmoil was but faint. He set his face down this toward Madison Square， for the homing instinct survives even when the home is a park bench.
But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill. Here was an old church， quaint and rambling and gabled. Through one violet- stained window a soft light glowed， where， no doubt， the organist loitered over the keys， making sure of his mastery of the coming Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy’s ears sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of the iron fence.
The moon was above， lustrous and serene； vehicles and pedestrians were few； sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves—for a little while the scene might have been a country churchyard. And the anthem that the organist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence， for he had known it well in the days when his life contained such things as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and collars.
The conjunction of Soapy’s receptive state of mind and the influences about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul. He viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled， the degraded days， unworthy desires， dead hopes， wrecked faculties and base motives that made up his existence.
And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel mood. An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his desperate fate. He would pull himself out of the mire； he would make a man of himself again； he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him. There was time； he was comparatively young yet； he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without faltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution in him. To- morrow he would go into the roaring downtown district and find work. A fur importer had once offered him a place as driver. He would find him to- morrow and ask for the position. He would be somebody in the world. He would—Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly around 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 in the Police Court the next morning.
44
The Mark on the Wall
墙上的斑点
Perhaps it was the middle of January in the present that I first looked up and saw the mark on the wall. In order to fix a date it is necessary to remember what one saw. So now I think of the fire； the steady film of yellow light upon the page of my book； the three chrysanthemums in the round glass bowl on the mantelpiece. Yes， it must have been the winter time， and we had just finished our tea， for I remember that I was smoking a cigarette when I looked up and saw the mark on the wall for the first time. I looked up through the smoke of my cigarette and my eye lodged for a moment upon the burning coals， and that old fancy of the crimson flag flapping from the castle tower came into my mind， and I thought of the cavalcade of red knights riding up the side of the black rock. Rather to my relief the sight of the mark interrupted the fancy， for it is an old fancy， an automatic fancy， made as a child perhaps. The mark was a small round mark， black upon the white wall， about six or seven inches above the mantelpiece.
How readily our thoughts swarm upon a new object， lifting it a little way， as ants carry a blade of straw so feverishly， and then leave it… If that mark was made by a nail， it can’t have been for a picture， it must have been for a miniature—the miniature of a lady with white powdered curls， powder-dusted cheeks， and lips like red carnations. A fraud of course， for the people who had this house before us would have chosen pictures in that way—an old picture for an old room. That is the sort of people they were—very interesting people， and I think of them so often， in such queerplaces， because one will never see them again， never know what happened next. They wanted to leave this house because they wanted to change their style of furniture， so he said， and he was in process of saying that in his opinion art should have ideas behind it when we were torn asunder， as one is torn from the old lady about to pour out tea and the young man about to hit the tennis ball in the back garden of the suburban villa as one rushes past in the train.
