Oh, the missionaries! are there no bandits in America? Why, oh why, do they insist on questioning me about my soul, and offering to wrestle with my most secret sins, when there is a man in the next cell who needs underclothes? After hearing the missionaries and being promised another call on the morrow, I wonder that the men do not rush to the District Attorney’s office and accept “pleas.” Sing Sing would seem preferable to another visitation.
I must not forget Sister “Goo-Goo,” who is so sympathetic. She stands outside, looking into my cell through the barred door; she also looks alluring. She sighs, then whispers, “This may be your door of hope.” “Then why is it kept locked?” I beg to inquire.
Sometimes they come on Sundays with last year’s religious papers and magazines; they come and gossip with the keepers; or they bring a friend to whom they show the sights and point out us poor unfortunates. It is pleasant to watch them as they meet and compare dress goods patterns which they produce from their pocket-books; how briefly the hours go by, what brotherly and sisterly love; how they enjoy themselves; how happy we are while they do this.
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.”