Of course we exchange experiences when they have departed; and, good souls, their visits often provoke some humor in the gray days of our existence. During the exercise hour one morning I overheard the “hard” man tell another, “her skirts” (that woman) “says she is praying for me, but it won’t hurt me none, for I’ve got an alibi.” “See what the old ‘four-eyed gent’ just gave me,” said the wooden-legged man. It was a tract on the sin of dancing. “He’s all right,” cut in another, “the old ‘polar top’s’ going to see the judge about me and I’ll only get two years.” “Oh,” said the lame man, “that’s what the judge _intends_ to give yer _now_; after ‘the century plant’ talks to him for three or four hours, the judge will give you eighty years.” How the missionaries love each other! few are on speaking terms; but must they make _me_ their confidant; do I not suffer sufficiently? This is what I must listen to, “That woman over there putting her ‘stuff’ through the bars is one of the very worst liars who comes here; you can’t believe a word she says. You don’t want to have anything to do with her; the less you tell her the better. What do you think, she keeps the money she collects for the poor prisoners.” My visitor goes and his place is taken by the “friend” he has just eulogized. “Did that man say anything about me? Did you ever hear of his doing any good for any one? He ought to be put out.” This good lady is followed by another, her sister in the Lord. The second one does not speak to the first; but she does speak of her and imparts her social and financial status. “Oh, yes, she’s very wealthy; she could afford to do _much more_ than she does; she lives in a brownstone house, and keeps three servants; but _I_ have given everything I possess to the Lord.” Oh, the cant! the cant one hears in the Tombs. But there is another kind; there are the real workers who bring gladness and help; there _was_ the “Tombs Angel,” there is “Sister Sunshine,” and “Sister ----”; but it is of her I started to tell this story. I heard it from a court officer over in the Criminal Court Building during my examination before the Coroner. I was in the “box,” which means the “pen,” that is to say, the “stall” in which you wait till you are called before the judge, and my friend the officer said, referring to a very miserable specimen in the opposite “pen,” who was in convulsions by reason of his anger: “He’s the worst ever; the worst ever I see; the very worst. Why, what do you think? he cursed the Sister—what? did I? Did I call him down?” The Sister he referred to is one of the black-robed saints, who for the sake of the lowly Nazarene devote their lives to laboring among the sinners and unfortunates in the city prisons. The object of the keeper’s wrath was the toughest man in the Tombs—to have that distinction one must be hard indeed.