"Captain Ricks" - so he styles himself - seedy sun-burned and smelling like a patriarch goat, came into the Argus office yesterday accompanied by three or four more of the same genus, and drawing from lus parcel a dirty, tobáceo splashed scrawl on whicli was traced a number of Coxey doggerels, asked that they be printed. The job was taken and the work done. To get the stuff in shape for the printer it was necessary to copy the entire literary rot. The manuscript, like Ricks had that"pretty pond lily" smell, and the copyist handled it with the tongs and sat on the larboard side of it, while making the transcription. Ricks says he and his scented gang came all the way from Seattle, Washington, and thus far have walked only thirty miles. Said he, "Why should we walk? - railroads are ours." Rickets and his tramps are on their way to join Tramp Jeffries. He is a Pole, and neither he nor the others can speak English well. The company is a strong one - not in numbers, nor like Samson, but like a skunk. Why it is that people can be fooled into giving countenance, aid and comfort to the gangs of vags, masquerading as a "labor army out of employment and seeking legislative redress," is something unanswerable. They are simply lazing away the summer and living on the mille, cheese and gullibility of the public, and their pretense is a fraud of the rankest kind. They are an insult to honest labor, and should go to the stoneyard or houses of correction, like other tramps, who are their betters; for the common tramp makes no pretense of being anything else than what he is. Give the Coxeyite the stone hammer. Ricks is the man who had a hose turned on him in Detroit, as illustrated in the News, last week. There should have been soap in the water. His Paradise odor is with him still.