The following letter was pencilled by a shaking hand, late that afternoon. It was written upon a barrel in the Lynch wood-shed, on a piece of wrapping paper, a bristly little head bending over it:
To the Policeman who comes to take my dog 'cause I ain't got the two fifty—'cause I tried but could only get one eighty—'cause a man was off his nut and didn't pay me what I earned—
This is to tell you I am an anarchist and do not believe in the government or the law and the order and will shoot you when you come. I wouldn't a been an anarchist if I could a got the money and I tried to get it but I couldn't get it—not enough. I don't think the government had ought to take things you like like I like Hero so I am against the government.
Thought I would tell you first.
Yours truly,
F. LYNCH.
I don't see how I can shoot you 'cause where would I get the revolver. So I will have to do it with the butcher knife. Folks are sometimes killed that way 'cause my father read it in the paper.
If you wanted to take the one eighty and leave Hero till I can get the seventy I will not do anything to you and would be very much obliged.
1113 Willow street.
The letter was properly addressed and sealed—not for nothing had Stubby's teacher given those instructions in the art of letter writing. The stamp he paid for out of the dime the man gave him to get a soda with—and forget his troubles.