such copy, and the proprietors of the paper offered him $3,000 a year to take charge of their subscription books. One night when he was taking “State,” Syracuse called up and wanted to know if he could deliver a message to the Chief of Police. Jim told him “yes,” and took it, and told New York to go ahead. Then he jumped up and walked over to the police station, stopped into a little “dive” there is right there by the Delavan House, got a “schooner” and two “ponies” of beer, and came back to the office, and he “sat in” and went to copying, and caught up to New York before he got “30,” though he fell four hundred words behind while he was gone. These are only a few of the stories I can tell you about Jim Lawless, but these ought to suffice. I never encounter a crowd of operators but what some one will tune up about Hank Somebody, Sandy This, Nick That, and their appalling achievements, and as I know for a positive certainty that Jim Lawless was the best operator that ever struck a key, I can not refrain from giving one or two of his feats publicity.