THE
ABYSMAL BRUTE
[Contents]
THE ABYSMAL BRUTE
I
Sam Stubener ran through his mail carelessly andrapidly. As became a manager of prize-fighters, he was accustomed to avarious and bizarre correspondence. Every crank, sport, near sport, andreformer seemed to have ideas to impart to him. From dire threatsagainst his life to milder threats, such as pushing in the front of hisface, from rabbit-foot fetishes to lucky horse-shoes, from dinkyjerkwater bids to the quarter-of-a-million-dollar offers ofirresponsible nobodies, he knew the whole run of the surprise portionof his mail. [4]In his time having received a razor-strop made fromthe skin of a lynched negro, and a finger, withered and sun-dried, cutfrom the body of a white man found in Death Valley, he was of theopinion that never again would the postman bring him anything thatcould startle him. But this morning he opened a letter that he read asecond time, put away in his pocket, and took out for a third reading.It was postmarked from some unheard-of post-office in Siskiyou County,and it ran:
Dear Sam:
You don’t know me, except my reputation. You come after mytime, and I’ve been out of the game a long time. But take it fromme I ain’t been asleep. I’ve followed the whole game, andI’ve followed you, from the t
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