Read FICTION books online

Reading books fiction Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you donā€™t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself.



Fiction genre suitable for people of all ages. Everyone will find something interesting for themselves. Our electronic library is always at your service. Reading online free books without registration. Nowadays ebooks are convenient and efficient. After all, donā€™t forget: literature exists and develops largely thanks to readers.
The genre of fiction is interesting to read not only by the process of cognition and the desire to empathize with the fate of the hero, this genre is interesting for the ability to rethink one's own life. Of course the reader may accept the author's point of view or disagree with them, but the reader should understand that the author has done a great job and deserves respect. Take a closer look at genre fiction in all its manifestations in our elibrary.



Read books online Ā» Fiction Ā» The Abysmal Brute by Jack London (best books to read for teens .txt) šŸ“–

Book online Ā«The Abysmal Brute by Jack London (best books to read for teens .txt) šŸ“–Ā». Author Jack London



1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 ... 12
Go to page:

The Abysmal Brute

by Jack London

Published as a book by The Century Company (May 1913)

First Published in Popular Magazine, 1911

Copyright, 1911, by Street and Smith, New York

CHAPTER I

SAM STUBENER ran through his mail carelessly and rapidly. As became a manager of prize-fighters, he was accustomed to a various and bizarre correspondence. Every crank, sport, near sport, and reformer seemed to have ideas to impart to him. From dire threats, such as pushing in the front of his face, from rabbit-foot fetishes to lucky horseshoes, from dinky jerkwater bids to the quarter-of-a-million-dollar offers of irresponsible nobodies, he knew the whole run of the surprise portion of his mail.

In his time having received a razor-strop made from the skin of a lynched Negro, and a finger, withered and sun-dried, cur from the body of a white man found in Death Valley, he was of the opinion that never again would the postman bring him anything that could startle him. But this morning he opened a letter that he read a second 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 donā€™t know me, except my reputation. You come after my time, and Iā€™ve been out of the game a long time. But take it from me I ainā€™t been asleep. Iā€™ve followed you, from the time Kal Aufman knocked you out to your last handling of Nat Belson, and I take it youā€™re the niftiest thing in the line of managers that ever came down the pike.

I got a proposition for you. I got the greatest unknown that ever happened. This ainā€™t con. Itā€™s the straight goods. What do you think of a husky that tips the scales at two hundred and twenty pounds fighting weight, is twenty-two years old, and can hit a kick twice as hard as my best ever? Thatā€™s him, my boy, Young Pat Glendon, thatā€™s the name heā€™ll fight under. Iā€™ve planned it all out. Now the best thing you can do is hit the first train and come up here.

I bred him and trained him. All that I ever had in my head Iā€™ve hammered into his. And maybe you wonā€™t believe it, but heā€™s added to it. Heā€™s a born fighter. Heā€™s a wonder at time and distance. He just knows to the second and the inch, and he donā€™t need to think about it at all. His six-inch jolt is more the real sleep medicine than the full-arm swing of most geezers.

Talk about the hope of the white race. This is him. Come and take a peep. When you was managing Jeffries you was crazy about hunting. Come along and Iā€™ll give you some real hunting and fishing that will make your movie picture winnings look like thirty cents. Iā€™ll send Young Pat out with you. I ainā€™t able to get around. Thatā€™s why Iā€™m sending for you. I was going to manage him myself. But it ainā€™t no use. Iā€™m all in and likely to pass out any time. So get a move on. I want you to manage him. Thereā€™s a fortune in it for both of you, but I want to draw up the contract.

Yours truly,

PAT GLENDON

Stubener was puzzled. It seemed, on the face of it, a jokeā€”the men in the fighting game were notorious jokersā€”and he tried to discern the fine hand of Corbett or the big friendly paw of Fitzsimmons in the screed before him. But if it were genuine, he knew it was worth looking into. Pat Glendon was before his time, though, as a cub, he had once seen Old Pat spar at the benefit for Jack Dempsey. Even then he was called ā€œOldā€ Pat, and had been out of the ring for years. He had antedated Sullivan, in the old London Prize Ring Rules, though his last fading battles had been put up under the incoming Marquis of Queensbury Rules.

What ring-follower did not know of Pat Glendon?ā€”though few were alive who had seen him in his prime, and there were not many more who had seen him at all. Yet his name had come down in the history of the ring, and no sporting writerā€™s lexicon was complete without it. His fame was paradoxical. No man was honored higher, and yet he had never attained championship honors. He had been unfortunate, and had been known as the unlucky fighter.

Four times he all but won the heavyweight championship, and each time he had deserved to win it. There was the time on the barge, in San Francisco Bay, when at the moment he had the champion going, he snapped his own forearm; and on the island in the Thames, sloshing about in six inches of rising tide, he broke a leg at a similar stage in a winning fight; in Texas, too, there was the never-to-be-forgotten day when the police broke in just as he had his man going in all certainty. And finally, there was the fight in the Mechanicsā€™ Pavilion in San Francisco, when he was secretly jobbed from the first by a gun-fighting bad man of a referee backed by a small syndicate of bettors. Pat Glendon had had no accidents in that fight, but when he had knocked his man cold with a right to the jaw and a left to the solar plexus, the referee calmly disqualified him for fouling. Every ringside witness, every sporting expert, and the whole sporting world, knew there had been no foul. Yet, like all fighters, Pat Glendon had agreed to abide by the decision of the referee. Pat abided, and accepted it as in keeping with the rest of his bad luck.

This was Pat Glendon. What bothered Stubener was whether or not Pat had written the letter. He carried it down town with him. Whatā€™s become of Pat Glendon? Such was his greeting to all the sports that morning. Nobody seemed to know. Some thought he must be dead, but none knew positively. The fight editor of a morning daily looked up the records and was able to state that his death had not been noted. It was from Tim Donovan, that he got a clue.

ā€œSure anā€™ he ainā€™t dead,ā€ said Donovan. ā€œHow could that be?ā€”a man of his make that never boozed or blew himself? He made money, and whatā€™s more, he saved it and invested it. Did nā€™t he have three saloons at the time? Anā€™ wasnā€™t he makinā€™ slathers of money with them when he sold out? Now that Iā€™m thinkinā€™, that was the last time I laid eyes on himā€”when he sold them out. ā€˜T was all of twenty years and more ago. His wife had just died. I met him headinā€™ for the Ferry. ā€˜Where away, old sport?ā€™ says I. ā€˜Itā€™s me for the woods,ā€™ says he. ā€˜Iā€™ve quit. Good-by, Tim, me boy.ā€™ And Iā€™ve never seen him from that day to this. Of course he ainā€™t dead.ā€

ā€œYou say when his wife diedā€”did he have any children?ā€ Stubener queried.

ā€œOne, a little baby. He was lugginā€™ it in his arms that very day.ā€

ā€œWas it a boy?ā€

ā€œHow should I be knowinā€™?ā€

It was then that Sam Stubener reached a decision, and that night found him in a Pullman speeding toward the wilds of Northern California.

CHAPTER II

Stubener was dropped off the overland at Deer Lick in the early morning, and he kicked his heels for an hour before the one saloon opened its doors. No, the saloonkeeper didnā€™t know anything about Pat Glendon, had never heard of him, and if he was in that part of the country he must be out beyond somewhere. Neither had the one hanger-on ever heard of Pat Glendon. At the hotel the same ignorance obtained, and it was not until the storekeeper and postmaster opened up that Stubener struck the trail. Oh, yes, Pat Glendon lived out beyond. You took the stage at Alpine, which was forty miles and which was a logging camp. From Alpine, on horseback, you rode up Antelope Valley and crossed the divide to Bear Creek. Pat Glendon lived somewhere beyond that. The people of Alpine would know. Yes, there was a young Pat. The storekeeper had seen him. He had been in to Deer Lick two years back. Old Pat had not put in an appearance for five years. He bought his supplies at the store, and always paid by check, and he was a white-haired, strange old man. That was all the storekeeper knew, but the folks at Alpine could give him final directions.

It looked good to Stubener. Beyond doubt there was a young Pat Glendon, as well as an old, living out beyond. That night the manager spent at the logging camp of Alpine, and early the following morning he rode a mountain cayuse up Antelope Valley. He rode over the divide and down Bear Creek. He rode all day, through the wildest, roughest country he had ever seen, and at sunset turned up Pinto Valley on a trail so stiff and narrow that more than once he elected to get off and walk.

It was eleven oā€™clock when he dismounted before a log cabin and was greeted by the baying of two huge deerhounds. Then Pat Glendon opened the door, fell on his neck, and took him in.

ā€œI knew yeā€™d come, Sam, me boy,ā€ said Pat, the while he limped about, building a fire, boiling coffee, and frying a big bear-steak. ā€œThe young un ainā€™t home the night. We was gettinā€™ short of meat, and he went out about sundown to pick up a deer. But Iā€™ll say no more. Wait till ye see him. Heā€™ll be home in the morn, and then you can try him out. Thereā€™s the gloves. But wait till ye see him.

ā€œAs for me, Iā€™m finished. Eighty-one come next January, anā€™ pretty good for an ex-bruiser. But I never wasted meself, Sam, nor kept late hours anā€™ burned the candle at all ends. I had a damned good candle, anā€™ made the most of it, as youā€™ll grant at lookinā€™ at me. And Iā€™ve taught the same to the young un. What do you think of a lad of twenty-two thatā€™s never had a drink in his life nor tasted tobacco? Thatā€™s him. Heā€™s a giant, and heā€™s lived natural all his days. Wait till he takes you out after deer. Heā€™ll break your travelinā€™ light, him a carryinā€™ the outfit and a big buck deer belike. Heā€™s a child of the open air, anā€™ winter nor summer has he slept under a roof. The open for him, as I taught him. The one thing that worries me is how heā€™ll take to sleepinā€™ in houses, anā€™ how heā€™ll stand the tobacco smoke in the ring. ā€˜Tis a terrible thing, that smoke, when youā€™re fighting hard anā€™ gaspinā€™ for air. But no more, Sam, me boy. You ā€˜re tired anā€™ sure should be sleepinā€™. Wait till you see him, thatā€™s all. Wait till you see him.

But the garrulousness of age was on old Pat, and it was long before he permitted Stubenerā€™s eyes to close.

ā€œHe can run a deer down with his own legs, that young un,ā€ he

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 ... 12
Go to page:

Free ebook Ā«The Abysmal Brute by Jack London (best books to read for teens .txt) šŸ“–Ā» - read online now

Comments (0)

There are no comments yet. You can be the first!
Add a comment