Free The Bruiser by Jim Tully Page B

the end of the round with a surprised expression.
    â€œI told Wilson I’d see that you got a good workout,” Silent Tim Haney smiled.
    When the gong sounded, Silent Tim looked at Sully and said, “Come on, Harry, this is the last round.”
    The youth was on top of him again. At the end of the round, he was still flailing with both gloves.
    Silent Tim waited until Sully came to his corner.
    â€œThat kid’s a wildcat,” he grumbled.
    Silent Tim hurried to Shane. “Where are you from?”
    â€œNo place.”
    â€œBeen fightin’ long?”
    â€œOff an’ on for quite a while—I never took it very serious—anything to make a livin’.”
    â€œWho was it you fought in Butte?”
    â€œEddie Flynn.”
    â€œHuh—a good boy.” Tim Haney’s manner changed. “I remember now.” He looked around. “Well, you made good here. I’ll give you a match with Sully. Al Wilson, his manager, wants me to get him a fight.” He put his hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Don’t say nothin’ to nobody—I may wanta manage you.”
    â€œIt’s all right with me,” returned Shane, putting on his worn coat, and picking up the small handbag. “I’m sick of floatin’ around.”
    â€œWhere you livin’?” asked Mr. Haney.
    â€œI don’t know,” replied Shane, “some little joint Iflopped in last night. Fellow from Loue-e-ville runs it—down on Post Street—here’s his card.”
    The manager wrote the address.
    â€œI’ll be seein’ you,” he said, “an’ remember, you’re on in the main event a week from this comin’ Saturday.”
    â€œAll right-where’ll I train?”
    â€œI’ll phone Lavin’s and fix it up—it’s only a little ways from where you stay.”
    â€œOkeh,” returned Shane, as he left.
    Silent Tim Haney returned to his rickety chair. For a moment he was silent, and stared at the picture of Abraham Lincoln.
    Different stooges talked low. The young bruiser’s personality still echoed in the room. It had the semi-quiet of a place just raided by the police.
    â€œThat guy’s a storm, eh, Mr. Haney?” finally came from a stooge.
    Silent Tim’s eyes moved from George Washington to the picture of a slender woman in tights.
    â€œI’ll say he’s a storm,” cut in Harry Sully, now dressed—”gimme a cigarette somebody—he tried to lay me out— He kin hit.”
    â€œHow’d you like to fight him?” Silent Tim Haney asked.
    â€œAny time.”
    â€œHe may take you.” Silent Tim still stared at the lady in tights.
    â€œThat’s what you thought about Jerry Wayne.” Silent Tim turned suddenly, but said nothing. Sully blew a ring of smoke. “There’s nobody lickin’ me.”
    â€œHow about Torpedo Jones?” Silent Jim snapped the question.
    â€œFluke decision—I’ll knock that Nigger dead if he ever fights me again. I was born to lick him.”
    â€œI didn’t see the fight,” pursued Silent Tim, “but from what I hear you fought him wrong—tryin’ to counter punch with him.”
    â€œI don’t fight none of them palookas wrong—besides I beat him—you can ask my manager. Al Wilson’ll tell you I had him woozy in the seventh.”
    â€œMaybe Al’s prejudiced, bein’ your manager.”
    â€œWho—Wilson prejudiced—you don’t know that guy—to hear him talk you’d think I didn’t have a chance with anybody. He’s always jackin’ me up like I was some stumble bum, an’ not a comin’ champeen.”
    Silent Tim, taunting, “It takes more’n nerve to be champeen, Sully—many are called, so the Good Book says, but very few are chosen.”
    â€œWell, I’m called—you hear that.” Sully threw the cigarette from