My friend Congressman Jim has just informed me that the conspirators were beginning to fear their ability even to get their “rider” to the post for a start; that many members and representatives of the Periodical Press Association of New York City, as well as those of other branches of the printing industry, hearing of the attempt to put this confiscatory rider over in the closing hours--the crooked hours--of Congress, hurried to Washington and sought to inform Senators and members of the House of the _truth about second-class mail matter_. Congressman Jim also informed me that a delegation representing the publishing interests of Chicago had arrived a few hours before and were scarcely on the ground before “things began to happen.” “People talk about Chicagoans making a noise,” said Jim in his L.-D. message, “but when it comes to doing things you can count on them to go to it suddenly, squarely and effectively. That delegation is one of the causes of the excitement which you notice here. Good-by.” Friend Jim, being a Chicago boy, may be pardoned even when a little profuse or over-confident in speaking of what his townsmen can do, but Congressman Jim is a live-wire Congressman, and has been able to do several things himself while on his legislative job, even against stacked-up opposition. While reporting on Congressman Jim’s message from Washington, I phoned the leading features to the office and have just received peremptory orders to write up not only this attempt but other attempts to raid the postal revenues of the country by means of crooked riders and otherwise. So there is nothing to do but go to it. Incidentally, my editor, knowing my tendency to write with a club, cautions me to adopt the dignified style of composition while writing upon this subject. I assure my readers that I shall be as dignified as the heritage of my nature will allow and the subject warrants. If I occasionally fall from the expected dignified altitude I trust the reader will be indulgent, will charge the fault, in part at least, to my remote Alsatian ancestor. He fought with a club. I have therefore an inherited tendency to write (fight), with a club. So here goes. In opening on this important subject, for vastly important it is from whatever angle one views it, I wish first to speak of the governmental postoffice department and then of Postmaster Generals. First I will say that this government has not had, at least within the range of my mature recollection, any business management of its postoffice department above the level of that given to Reuben’s country store of Reubenville, Arkansas.