Free The Bruiser by Jim Tully Page A

looked scornfully around.
    â€œWhat do you weigh?” asked the manager.
    â€œA hundred and sixty-eight, stripped.”
    â€œWanta put on the gloves with anybody here?” The manager looked about.
    â€œAnybody,” snapped the boy.
    â€œGet Harry Sully,” commanded the manager, “we’ll see how good you are.”
    Harry Sully, just becoming a prominent heavyweight, came into the room.
    â€œHe’s got it on you twenty pounds, but you don’t mind that, do you?” said the manager.
    â€œNot atall,” said Shane.
    The manager, still by way of banter, “Are you sure you kin be a card for me?”
    Shane pointed to Harry Sully, “Ask him when we’re through.”
    â€œWell, I’m looking for a new face to fight the main bout with him—see what you can do—”
    â€œWell, I’m your huckleberry, Mr. Haney—I was born with my fists closed. They had to pry ’em open.”
    â€œDo you always brag this way?” said the manager.
    â€œI don’t brag, Mr. Haney. I’ve got to get off the bum. Besides, I may as well say it as think it—and I don’t believe in lyin’—you can put it down in your little red notebook—I’ve been foolin’ around with the gloves ever since I was seven years old.”
    He laid his clothes on an old chair. Standing nude, he jerked a pair of yarn tights from the handbag.
    â€œAin’t you got no protectors—you’re liable to get hit low.”
    The boy looked at the manager. “They can’t hit low when they’re busy backin’ up,” he said, “now can they, Mr. Haney?”
    The manager’s eyes opened in amazement.
    â€œDo you know who Harry Sully is?” he asked.
    â€œSure I know who everybody is—does he know who I am—but anyhow, Mr. Haney—I always remembered you after Butte—I said to myself right then, ‘Some day I’ll team up with him.’ I knew then you had your hands full with one good fighter—and Jerry Wayne was good.”
    â€œYou admit it, eh?” said the manager, pleased.
    â€œSure—anyone could see that. I didn’t dress till his fight was over that night—I just set in my bathrobe and watched him throw them gloves.”
    â€œWell, you watched a great man at his best.” The manager’s eyes lit with happy memory. “A machine gun couldn’t throw gloves any faster.”
    â€œAnd his foot work,” marveled Shane, “He could dance a jig on a dime.”
    â€œYes, yes, indeed—a wonderful boy.”
    â€œI fought him and won,” Harry Sully said, waiting.
    â€œYou fought his shadow,” Silent Tim Haney said, without looking at Sully.
    â€œThat night in Butte,” continued Shane, “you were up collectin’ the money, I guess, Mr. Haney. I went to see Jerry after the fight, and I said to him, ‘I think you got it on ’em all, Jerry,’ and he puts his arm around me and says, ‘You’re not so bad yourself, Kid. I watched you in that one round— Snap your left more when you move in for the kill.’ I never forgot that. I won my next fight with a short left. I always liked him after that—and I was sorry to hear he got beat.”
    He looked across at Harry Sully, who stood, frowning. Sully’s shoulders were broad and stooped near to abnormal. Over six feet, he seemed shorter. His hair was clipped close. His nose was large and flat. His ears were small and out of shape. His jaw was undershot, long and square. Beginning at a hundred and thirty, he had fought at different weights. His greatest feat had been in whipping Jerry Wayne.
    The gloves on, Shane began to bounce around and throw blows at an imaginary foe.
    Harry Sully stepped jauntily toward him when the gong rang.
    He was smothered in a flurry of blows. Unable tokeep the newcomer away from him with all his knowledge, he went to his corner at