On one of my early visits to Clinton, the third prison in New York, I was spending a long day in interviews. I believe there were over seventy names on the list who had specially asked to see me. The warden had very kindly placed his private office at my disposal, and he himself introduced each newcomer, then leaving us alone that the man might confide in me what he wished concerning his needs or those of his loved ones. Hour after hour passed quickly and towards the end of the day the warden introduced a very forlorn-looking man by a name which was almost unpronounceable. It was his own name undoubtedly. No man could have happened on such an alias. As I stepped forward to greet my visitor, the warden passed out behind him but I caught a merry twinkle in his eye that made me guess something was amusing him. My secretary afterwards reported that when he reached the next room, he told her the joke. He had introduced to me a Greek, whose English was as mysterious as his own language and my interview was likely to be somewhat one-sided. I certainly found it so. That my new friend was very forlorn and unhappy was plain, that he needed sympathy and comfort was evident, but the only words I could understand despite his most conscientious and voluble efforts were these, "Me poor man, me no friends." Between other remarks delivered with sighs and entreaties, those words always remained the tenor of his thought. I assured him with word and gesture I would gladly be his friend, but beyond that I could convey little comfort, so I just sat and smiled on him, and fortunately a smile is the same in all languages. When our interview came to an end and he departed to his cell, I was inclined to believe it had been fruitless and that I had given him no possible help.