The door is thrown open violently once more, and two flashily-dressed women enter, and hurry forward to the desk. Their faces are flushed, they are greatly excited, and have evidently been drinking. They begin their story together, talking loudly and angrily. They will not stand it any longer, they declare. Madame Loraine owes them money, and they “are going to have it or raise h—l.” The sergeant, having listened patiently, mildly interposes with the hope that nothing of the kind will be raised in the station house, and then asks: “How much does she owe you?” “Seventy-five dollars,” they reply in one voice. “And why don’t she pay you?” “Because she thinks by keeping herself in our debt we won’t leave her,” they respond together, “and we want a policeman to come along and make her hand over.” The sergeant considers for a moment and then declares the matter does not come within the jurisdiction of the police, and that he can do nothing for them. They stare at him in blank amazement for a while, and then flounce out of the room, loudly cursing the whole police force, and the sergeant in particular. The next comer is in charge of another officer. He is very dirty and wretchedly drunk. His tall hat is smashed in, and there is mud sticking in his hair. He is placed before the desk. “Drunk and disorderly, sir,” says the patrolman. “I found him trying to climb a telegraph pole in front of Pottgieser’s saloon. He said he always went to his room by way of the fire escape, when he came home late.” The prisoner is silent, but tries to listen to the officer, and fixes upon the sergeant as solemn a look as his bleared eyes will permit. He is too drunk to give his name, and is sent to a cell, where he is soon in a drunken slumber. Toward midnight, a poor woman, shabbily dressed, with a thin, well-worn shawl around her head enters, and approaches the desk. “Can you tell me if anything has been heard of my husband yet?” she asks—the same question she has repeated every day for the past week. “No, ma’am, nothing,” answers the sergeant, briefly; but his eyes as he glances at the poor sorrowful creature, have a pitying look in them. “What is your husband’s business?” “He was a stevedore, sir.” “And you were married to him how long?” “Eleven years and over, sir, we had four children, all dead now but the youngest. He was a good husband to me; but he took a drop too much now and then, and was cross and noisy. He left the house three weeks ago, and we have never seen him since.” “Did he leave you any money?” “He left us nothing, sir. The child and myself live on the charity of neighbors; but we can’t expect to live that way always.” “Well, I’ll speak to the captain,” says the sergeant, kindly, “and see what can be done for you, and if a dollar will do you any good, here it is.” And the good-hearted sergeant passes a silver coin over the desk, and sends the woman away sobbing out her expression of gratitude.