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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



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was so born.ā€

Once, in a clinch, the fight manager heeled his glove on young Patā€™s mouth, and there was just a hint of viciousness in the manner of doing it. A moment later, in the next clinch, Sam received the heel of the otherā€™s glove on his own mouth. There was nothing snappy about it, but the pressure, stolidly lazy as it was, put his head back till the joints cracked and for a moment he thought his neck was broken. He slacked his body and dropped his arms in token that the bout was over, felt the instant release, and staggered clear.

ā€œHeā€™llā€”heā€™ll do,ā€ he gasped, looking the admiration he lacked the breath to utter.

Old Patā€™s eyes were brightly moist with pride and triumph.

ā€œAnā€™ what will you be thinkinā€™ to happen when some of the gay anā€™ ugly ones tries to rough it on him?ā€ he asked.

ā€œHeā€™ll kill them, sure,ā€ was Stubenerā€™s verdict.

ā€œNo; heā€™s too cool for that. But heā€™ll just hurt them some for their dirtiness.ā€

ā€œLetā€™s draw up the contract,ā€ said the manager.

ā€œWait till you know the whole worth of him!ā€ Old Pat answered. ā€œā€˜Tis strong terms Iā€™ll be makinā€™ you come to. Go for a deer-hunt with the boy over the hills anā€™ learn the lungs and the legs of him. Then weā€™ll sign up iron-clad and regular.

Stubener was gone two days on that hunt, and he learned all and more than old Pat had promised, and came back a weary and very humble man. The young fellowā€™s innicence of the world had been startling to the case-hardened manager, but he had found him nobodyā€™s fool/ Virgin though his mind was, untouched by all save a narrow mountain experience, nevertheless he had proved possession of a natural keeness and shrewdness far beyond the average. In a way he was a mystery to Sam, who could not understand terrible equanimity of temper. Nothing ruffled him or worried him, and his patience was of an enduring primitiveness. He never swore, not even the futile and emasculated cussing words of sissy-boys.

ā€œIā€™d swear all right if I wanted to,ā€ he had explained, when challenged by his companion. ā€œBut I guess Iā€™ve never come to needing it. When I do, Iā€™ll swear I suppose.ā€

Old Pat, resolutely adhering to his decision, said good-by at the cabin.

ā€œIt wonā€™t be long, Pat, boy, when Iā€™ll be readinā€™ about you in the papers. Iā€™d like to go along, but Iā€™m afeard itā€™s me for the mountains till the end.ā€

And then, drawing the manager aside, the old man turned loose on him almost savagely.

ā€œRemember what Iā€™ve ben tellinā€™ ye over anā€™ over. The boyā€™s clean anā€™ heā€™s honest. He knows nothing of the rottenness of the game. I kept it all away from him, I tell you. He donā€™t know the meaninā€™ of fake. He knows only the bravery, anā€™ romance anā€™ glory of fightinā€™, and Iā€™ve filled him up with tales of the old ring heroes, though little enough, God knows, itā€™s set him afire. Man, man, Iā€™m tellinā€™ you that I clipped the fight columns from the newspapers to keep it ā€˜way from himā€”him a-thinkinā€™ I was wantinā€™ them for me scrap book. He donā€™t know a man ever lay down or threw a fight. So donā€™t turn the boyā€™s stomach. Thatā€™s why I put in the null and void clause. The first rottenness and the contractā€™s broke of itself. No snide division of stake-money; no secret arrangements with the movinā€™ pitcher men for guaranteed distance. Thereā€™s slathers oā€™ money for the both of you. But play it square or you lose. Understand?

ā€œAnd whatever youā€™ll be doinā€™ watch out for the women,ā€ was old Patā€™s parting admonishment, young Pat astride his horse and reining in dutifully to hear. ā€œWomen is death anā€™ damnation, remember that. But when you do find the one, the only one, hang on to her. Sheā€™ll be worth more than glory anā€™ money. But first be sure, anā€™ when youā€™re sure, donā€™t let her slip through your fingers. Grab her with the two hands of you and hang on. Hang on if all the world goes to smash anā€™ smithereens. Pat, boy, a good woman isā€¦ a good woman. ā€˜Tis the first word and last.ā€

CHAPTER III

Once in San Francisco, Sam Stubenerā€™s troubles began. Not that young Pat had a nasty temper, or was grouchy as his father had feared. On the contrary, he was phenomenally sweet and mild. But he was homesick for his beloved mountains. Also, he was secretly appalled by the city, though he trod its roaring streets imperturbable as a red Indian.

ā€œI came down here to fight,ā€ he announced, at the end of the first week.

ā€œWhereā€™s Jim Hanford?ā€

Stubener whistled.

ā€œA big champion like him wouldnā€™t look at you,ā€ was his answer. ā€œā€˜Go and get a reputation,ā€™ is what heā€™d say.ā€

ā€œI can lick him.ā€

ā€œBut the public doesnā€™t know that.

If you licked him youā€™d be champion of the world, and no champion ever became so with his first fight.ā€

ā€œI can.ā€

ā€œBut the public doesnā€™t know it, Pat. It wouldnā€™t come to see you fight. And itā€™s the crowd that brings the money and the big purses. Thatā€™s why Jim Hanford wouldnā€™t consider you for a second. Thereā€™d be nothing in it for him. Besides, heā€™s getting three thousand a week right now in vaudeville, with a contract for twenty-five weeks. Do you think heā€™d chuck that for a go with a man no one ever heard of? Youā€™ve got to do something first, make a record. Youā€™ve got to begin on the little local dubs that nobody ever heard ofā€”guys like Chub Collins, Rough-House Kelly, and the Flying Dutchman. When youā€™ve put them away, youā€™re only started on the first round of the ladder. But after that youā€™ll go up like a balloon.ā€

ā€œIā€™ll meet those three named in the same ring one after the other,ā€ was Patā€™s decision. ā€œMake the arrangements accordingly.ā€

Stubener laughed.

ā€œWhatā€™s wrong? Donā€™t you think I can put them away?ā€

ā€œI know you can,ā€ Stubener assured him. ā€œBut it canā€™t be arranged that way. Youā€™ve got to take them one at a time. Besides, remember, I know the game and Iā€™m managing you. This proposition has to be worked up, and Iā€™m the boy that knows how. ā€œIf weā€™re lucky, you may get to the top in a couple of years and be the champion with a mint of money.ā€

Pat sighed at the prospect, then brightened up.

ā€œAnd after that I can retire and go back home to the old man,ā€ he said.

Stubener was about to reply, but checked himself. Strange as was this championship material, he felt confident that when the top was reached it would prove very similar to that of all the others who had gone before. Besides, two years was a long way off, and there was much to be done in the meantime.

When Pat fell to moping around his quarters, reading endless poetry books and novels drawn from the public library, Stubener sent him off to live on a Contra Costa ranch across the Bay, under the watchful eye of Spider Walsh. At the end of a week Spider whispered that the job was a cinch. His charge was away and over the hills from dawn till dark, whipping the streams for trout, shooting quail and rabbits, and pursuing the one lone and crafty buck famous for having survived a decade of hunters. It was the Spider who waxed lazy and fat, while his charge kept himself in condition.

As Stubener expected, his unknown was laughed at by the fight club managers. Were not the woods full of unknowns who were always breaking out with championship rashes? A preliminary, say of four roundsā€”yes, they would grant him that. But the main eventā€”never. Stubener was resolved that young Pat should make his dĆ©but in nothing less than a main event, and, by the prestige of his own name he at last managed it. With much misgiving, the Mission Club agreed that Pat Glendon could go fifteen rounds with Rough-House Kelly for a purse of one hundred dollars. It was the custom of young fighters to assume the names of old ring heroes, so no one suspected that he was the son of the great Pat Glendon, while Stubener held his peace. It was a good press surprise package to spring later.

Came the night of the fight, after a month of waiting. Stubenerā€™s anxiety was keen. His professional reputation was staked that his man would make a showing, and he was astounded to see Pat, seated in his corner a bare five minutes, lose the healthy color from his cheeks, which turned a sickly yellow.

ā€œCheer up, boy,ā€ Stubener said, slapping him on the shoulder. ā€œThe first time in the ring is always strange, and Kelly has a way of letting his opponent wait for him on the chance of getting stage-fright.ā€

ā€œIt isnā€™t that,ā€ Pat answered. ā€œItā€™s the tobacco smoke. Iā€™m not used to it, and itā€™s making me fair sick.ā€

His manager experienced the quick shock of relief. A man who turned sick from mental causes, even if he were a Samson, could never win to place in the prize ring. As for tobacco smoke, the youngster would have to get used to it, that was all.

Young Patā€™s entrance into the ring had been met with silence, but when Rough-House Kelly crawled through the ropes his greeting was uproarious. He did not belie his name. he was a ferocious-looking man, black and hairy, with huge, knotty muscles, weighing a full two hundred pounds. Pat looked across at him curiously, and received a savage scowl. After both had been introduced to the audience, they shook hands. And even as their gloves gripped, Kelly ground his teeth, convulsed his face with an expression of rage, and muttered:

ā€œYouā€™ve got yer nerve wid yeh.ā€ He flung Patā€™s hand roughly from his, and hissed, ā€œIā€™ll eat yeh up, ye pup!ā€

The audience laughed at the action, and it guessed hilariously at what Kelly must have said.

Back in his corner, and waiting the gong, Pat turned to Stubener.

ā€œWhy is he angry with me?ā€ he asked.

He ainā€™t,ā€ Stubener answered. Thatā€™s his way, trying to scare you. Itā€™s just mouth-fighting.ā€

ā€œIt isnā€™t boxing,ā€ was Patā€™s comment; and Stubener, with a quick glance, noted that his eyes were as mildly blue as ever.

ā€œBe careful,ā€ the manager warned, as the gong for the first round sounded and Pat stood up. ā€œHeā€™s liable to come at you like a man-eater.ā€

And like a man-eater Kelly did come at him, rushing across the ring in wild fury. Pat, who in his easy way had advanced only a couple of paces, gauged the otherā€™s momentum, sidestepped, and brought his stiff-arched right across to the jaw. Then he stood and looked on with a great curiosity. The fight was over. Kelly had fallen like a stricken bullock to the floor, and there he lay without movement while the referee, bending over him, shouted the ten seconds in his unheeding ear. When Kellyā€™s seconds came to lift him, Pat was before them. Gathering the huge, inert bulk of the man in his arms, he carried him to his corner and deposited him on the stool and in the arms of his seconds.

Half a minute later, Kellyā€™s head lifted and his eyes wavered open. He looked about him stupidly and then to one of his seconds.

ā€œWhat happened?ā€ he queried hoarsely. ā€œDid the roof fall on me?ā€

CHAPTER IV

As a result of his fight with Kelly, though the general opinion was that he had won by a fluke, Pat was matched with Rufe Mason. This took place three weeks later, and the Sierra Club audience at Dreamland Rink failed to see what happened. Rufe Mason

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