O. Henry's Full House

Hey, Charlie. Your lawyer's here

with the bail money.

Tell him I ain't in.

You're what?

You heard me.

Tell him I ain't in.

That man with the pencil

is the real star of this picture.

He was a writer-

many kinds of a writer:

A social critic, a humorist

and a technician.

His name was

William Sidney Porter...

but you'll remember him

by his pen name.

That's part of our language now-

O. Henry...

I'm a writer too.

My name is John Steinbeck.

I've always believed that

a writer should be read, not seen.

But O. Henry's dead.

He can't speak for himself.

I wonder if he would

if he could.

Remember O. Henry.'s safecracker,

Jimmy Valentine?

Little boys still want to grow up to be like

the Cisco Kid, the Robin Hood of the West.

Our folklore is full of O. Henry. -

his courage and his gaiety and his people.

He wrote so many good stories,

it's hard to choose.

- Here's one in point.

- "The Cop and the Anthem." You wanna hear it?

"When wild geese

honk high of nights...

and ladies without fur coats

grow kind to their husbands...

then you may know

that winter is near at hand...

and that the time has come to resolve oneself

into a Committee of Ways and Means...

to provide against

the coming rigors.

Lf, in addition, one is a denizen

of the city's parks...

like our good friend

Soapy here...

the need is not only great, but a state

of real emergency may be said to exist. "

Yes, Officer. Certainly.

At once.

Good morning,

Mr. Throckmortonl

Ah, good morning,

Truesdale.

- Kind of chilly, ain't it?

- Bracing, my boy. Bracing.

Have you made any plans

for the winter yet, Mr. Throckmorton?

- You may call me Soapy, Horace.

- Thank you, sir. Have you?

- Naturally.

- You ain't thinkin' of going to jail again, are ya?

- And why not?

- Because jails ain't what they used to be.

They're lettin' 'em

run down something awful.

They say almost anybody

can get in 'em nowadays.

My dear fellow, you must not listen

to every rumor you hear.

From long experience,

l can assure you that our fair city boasts...

of no finer institution

than its penal system.

What is more to the point, I am a man

of simple, if discriminating, tastes.

Three months in jail,

safe from wind and snow...

and the bludgeons

of the blue-coated minions of the law.

Good morning, Officer.

Three months, I say...

uh, of assured bed, board

and congenial company...

at the city's expense

are all that I ask of life.

I don't know, Soapy.

To me, jail's jail.

##[Small Band,

People Singing]

I'm, uh, considering

Florida myself.

Florida, that crass, unspeakable place,

the Coney Island of the tropics?

Fit only for millionaires and reluctant

witnesses? No, my friend.

For 15 years now,

a hospitable, luxurious...

well-heated cell has been

my winter quarters.

I would not swap one night

of it for a full season at Palm Beach.

A fellow was telling me

that these people run...

some nice places downtown

for dependents like us.

Charity? No, thank you. I'll take

the law over philanthropy any day.

For every benefit received

at the hands of charity, one must pay-

If not in coin, at least in humiliation

of spirit.

For every bed,

there is the toll of a bath.

Nor, may I add,

does the law insist on prayer...

morning, noon and night.

How are you going

to work it this year, Soapy?

Oh, there are devious ways,

my friend.

Wait here.

- Say, look here! That's my umbrella!

- Oh, it is, is it?

- Yes, l-

- Suppose you call a policeman and tell him that.

Go on. Call him.

There's one

at the corner.

Why don't you call him

and tell him I took your umbrella?

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