Classic Audiobook Collection - The Abysmal Brute by Jack London ~ Full Audiobook [comedy]

Episode Date: July 25, 2023

The Abysmal Brute by Jack London audiobook. Genre: comedy Young Pat Glendon is twenty-two years old, weighs two-hundred and twenty pounds, has never drunk alcohol nor tasted tobacco and knows little of city life. He’s all muscle, moves with cat-like grace and possesses great stamina and strength acquired from living natural in the wilds of northern California with his father. Young Pat is a natural at prize-fighting. In addition to his brawn he has speed and a natural instinct for the sport. His father, a former heavyweight prize-fighter himself, has trained Young Pat and believes it is time for the boy to take on the heavyweight world. But being in poor health, the elder Glendon enlists Sam Stubener of San Francisco to be the boy’s manager with instructions to protect the boy from the rottenness of the sport. Jack London’s The Abysmal Brute is a story about naivete and natural athleticism against the brutishness and corruption of professional boxing, intertwined with a touching romance. This novel was twice made into movies: The Abysmal Brute (1923) and Conflict (1936), the latter starring John Wayne as Young Pat Glendon. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:32:10) Chapter 02 (01:05:47) Chapter 03 (01:51:53) Chapter 04 (02:14:33) Chapter 05 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The Abysmal Brute by Jack London. Chapter 1 Sam Stubner 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 against his,

his life to milder 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, cut 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

Ciskew County, and it ran. Dear Sam, you don't know me, except my reputation. You come after my time, and I've been out of the game a long time. But take it from me, I ain't been asleep. I've followed the whole game, and I've followed you, from the time Cal Lofman knocked you out, to your last handling of Nat Belson. And I take it, You'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 ain't con.

It's the straight goods. What do you think of a husky that tips the scales at 220 pounds fighting weight is 22 years old and can hit a kick twice as hard as my best ever? That's him. my boy, young Pat Glendon. That's the name he'll fight under. I'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 I trained him. All that I ever had in my head, I've hammered into his. And maybe you won't believe it, but he's added to it. He's a born fighter. He's a born fighter. He's a

wonder at time and distance. He just knows to the second and the inch, and he don't have to think about it at all. His six-inch jolt is more the real sleep medicine than the full arm swing of most geysers. 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 I'll give you some real hunting. in fishing that will make your moving picture winnings look like 30 cents. I'll send young Pat out with you. I ain't able to get around. That's why I'm sending for you. I was going to manage him myself, but it ain't no use. I am all in and likely to pass out any time. So get to move on. I want you to manage him. There's a fortune in it for both of you,

but I want to draw up the contract. Yours truly, Pat Glendon. Stubner was puzzled. It seemed, on the face of it, a joke. The men in a fighting game were notorious jokers, 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 Old Pat, and had been out of the ring for years. He had antedated Sullivan and the old London Prize ring rules, though his last fading battles had been put up under the incoming Marquist of Queensberry rules. What ring follower did not know of Pat Glendon, 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 writer'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 Mechanics Pavilion in San Francisco. when he was secretly jobbed from the first by a gunfighting bad man of a referee, backed by a small syndicate of betters. 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 Stubner was whether or not Pat had written the letter. He carried it downtown with him. What's become of Pat Glendon? Such was his greeting to all 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. Sure, and he ain't dead, said Donovan. How could that be? A man of his make that never boozed or blew himself! He made money, and what's more, he saved it and invested it. Didn't he have three saloons at the one time? And wasn't he making slathers of money with them when he sold out?

Now that I'm thinking, that was the last time I laid eyes on him, when he sold them out. It was all of twenty years and more ago. His wife had just died. I met him heading for the fairy. Where away, old sport, says I? It's me for the woods, says he. I've quit. Goodbye, Timmy, boy. And I've never seen him from that day to this. Of course he ain't dead. You say when his wife died, did he have any children? Stubner queried. One, a little baby. He was lugging it in his arms that very day. Was it a boy? How should I be knowing? It was then that Sam Stubner reached a decision,

and that night found him in a Pullman, speeding toward the wilds of Northern California. Chapter 2 Stubner 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 saloon keeper didn'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 Stubner struck the trail. Oh yes, Pat Linden lived out beyond. You took the stage at Elpine, which was 40 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 at 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 directions.

It looked good to Stubner. Beyond doubt there was a young Pat Glendon, as well as an old one, living out beyond. That night the manager spent at the logging camp of Alpine, and early the following morning he rode a mountain cayus 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 11 o'clock.

when he dismounted before a log cabin and was greeted by the baying of two huge deer hounds. Then Pat Glendon opened the door, fell on his neck, and took him in. I knew you'd come, Sammy boy, said Pat. The while he limped about, building a fire, boiling coffee, and frying a big bear steak. The youngan ain't home the night. We was getting short of meat. and he went out about sundown to pick up a deer. But I'll say no more, wait till you see him.

He'll be home in the morn, and then you can try him out. There's the gloves. But wait till you see him. As for me, I'm finished. Eighty-one come next January, and pretty good for an ex-bruser. But I never wasted myself, Sam, nor kept late hours and burned the candle at all ends.

I had a damn good candle and made the most of it, as you'll grant it looking at me. And I've taught the same to the youngin. What do you think of a lad of 22 that's never had a drink in his life, nor tasted tobacco? That's him. He's a giant, and he's lived natural all his days. Wait till he takes you out after deer. He'll break your heart, traveling light, him carrying the out of the out of and a big buck deer be like. He's a child of the open air, and 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 he'll take

to sleeping in houses, and how he'll stand the tobacco smoke of the ring. Tis a terrible thing, that smoke, when you're fighting hard and gasping for air. But no more, Sam, me boy, you're tired and sure should be sleeping. Wait till you see him, that's all. Wait till you see him. But the garrulousness of age was on, old Pat, and it was long before he permitted Stubner's eyes to close. He can run a deer down with his own legs, that young'n. He broke out again. Tis the dandy training for the lungs, the hunter's life. He don't know much of else, though. He's read a few books at times and poetry stuff. He's just plain pure natural.

as you'll see when you clap eyes on him. He's got the old Irish strong in him. Sometimes the way he moons about, it's thinking strong I am, that he believes in the fairies and such like. He's a nature lover if ever there was one, and he's a feared of cities. He's read about him, but the biggest he was ever in was dear lick. He misliked the many people, and his report was that they'd stand weeded out. That was. was two years agone, the first and the last time he's seen a locomotive and a train of cars. Sometimes it's wrong, I'm thinking I am bringing him up a natural. It's giving him wind and stamina and a strength of wild bulls. No city-grown man can have a look-in against him. I'm willing to grant

that Jeffreys at his best could have worried the youngen a bit, but only a bit. The youngan could have broke him like a straw. And he don't look it. That's the everlast wonder of it. He's only a fine seeming young husky, but it's the quality of his muscle that's different. But wait till you see him, that's all. A strange liking the boy has for posies, and little meadows, a bit of pine with the moon beyond, windy sunsets are the sun of morns from the top of old baldy, and he has a hankering for the drawing of pictures of things, and of spoutin' about Lucifer night, from the poet's. books he got from the red-headed schoolteacher. But tis only his youngness. He'll settle down to the game

once we get him started, but watch out for grouches when it first comes to living in a city for him. A good thing. He's woman shy. They'll not bother him for years. He can't bring himself to understand the creatures, and damn few of them as he's seen at that. Twas the schoolteacher over at Samson's flat that put the poetry stuff in his head. She was clean Daffy over the youngan, and he never a-known. A warm-haired girl she was, not a mountain girl, but from down in the flatlands, and as time went by she was fair desperate, and the way she went after him was shameless. And what do you think the boy did when he tumbled to it? He was scared as a jackrabbit. He took blankets and ammunition and hiked for tall timber. Not for a month did I lay

eyes on him, and then he sneaked in after dark and was gone in the morn. Nor would he as much as peep at her letters. Burnham, he said, and Burnham, I did. Twice she wrote over on a coyuse all the way from Samson's flat, and I was sorry for the young creature. She was fair hungry for the boy, and she looked it in her face. And at the end of three months she gave up school and went back to her own country. And then it was that the boy came home to the shack to live again. Women have been the ruination of many a good fighter, but they won't be of him. He blushes like a girl, if anything young in skirts, looks at him a second time, or too long the first one. And they all look at him. But when he fights, when he fights, God, it's the old savage Irish

that flares in him and drives the fists of him. Not that he goes off his base, don't walk away with that. At my best I was never as cool as he. I missed out, twas the wrath of me that brought the accident, but he's an iceberg. He's hot and cold at the one time, a live wire and an ice chest. Stubner was dozing, when the old man's mumble aroused him. He listened drowsily. I made a man of him, by God. I made a man of him, with the two fists of him, and the upstanding and legs of him, in the straight sea and eyes. And I know the game in my head, and I've kept up with the times and the modern changes. The crouch? Sure, he knows all the styles and economies. He never moves two inches when an inch and a half will do the turn. And when he wants, he can spring like

a buck kangaroo. In-fighting? Wait do you see. Better than his out-fighting. And he could sure sparred with Peter Jackson and outfooted Corbett at his best. I tell you I've taught him at all, to the last trick, and he's improved on the teaching. He's a fair genius at the game, and he's had plenty of husky mountain men to try out on. I gave him the fancy work, and they gave him the slogging. Nothing shy or delicate about them. Roaring bulls and big grizzly bears, that's what they are, when it comes to hugging in a clinch or swinging rough-like, and the rushes. And he plays with him. Man, do you hear me? He plays with him, like you and me would play with little puppy dogs. Another time, Stubner awoke, to hear the old man mumbling. Tis the

funny thing he don't take fighting seriously. It's that easy to him he thinks it's play. But wait so he's tapped a swift one. That's all wait. And you'll see him throw on the juice in that cold storage plant of his, and turn loose the prettiest scientific wallopin that ever you laid eyes on. In the shivery gray of Mountain Dawn, Stubner was routed from his blankets by old Pat. He's coming up to trail now, was the horse whisper. Out with ye, and take your first peep at the biggest fighting man the ring has ever seen, or we'll ever see in a thousand years again.

The manager peered through the open door, rubbing the sleep from his heavy eyes, and saw a young giant walk into the clearing. In one hand was a rifle. Across his shoulders, a heavy deer, under which he moved as if it were weightless. He was dressed roughly in blue overalls and a woollen shirt open at the throat. Coat, he had none, and on his feet, instead of his waist. instead of Brogans, were moccasins. Stubner noted that his walk was smooth and cat-like,

without suggestion of his 220 pounds of weight, to which that of the deer was added. The fight manager was impressed from the first glimpse. Formidable the young fellow certainly was, but the manager sensed the strangeness and unusualness of him. He was a new type, something different from the run of fighters. He seemed a creature of the wild, more a night-roaming figure from some old fairy story or folktale than a 20th century youth. A thing Stubner quickly discovered was that young Pat

was not much of a talker. He acknowledged old Pat's introduction with a grip of the hand, but without speech, and silently set to work at building the fire and getting breakfast, To his father's direct questions he answered in monosyllables, as, for instance, when asked where he had picked up the deer. South Fork, was all he vouchsafed? Eleven miles across the mountains, the old man exposited pridefully to Stubner and a trail that'd break your heart. Breakfast consisted of black coffee, sourdough bread, and an immense gruburn. quantity of bear meat broiled over the coals. Of this the young fellow ate ravenously, and Stubner divined that both the Glendons were accustomed to an almost straight meat diet.

Old Pat did all the talking, though it was not till the meal was ended that he broached the subject he had at heart. "'Pat, boy,' he began, "'you know who the gentleman is?' Young Pat nodded and cast a quick, comprehensive glance at the manager. Well, he'll be taking you away with him and down to San Francisco. I'd sooner stay here, Dad, was the answer. Stubner felt a prick of disappointment. It was a wild goose chase after all.

This was no fighter, eager and fretting to be at it. His huge brawn counted for nothing. It was nothing new. It was the big fellows that usually had the streak of fat. But old Pat's Celtic wrath flared up, and his voice was harsh with command. You'll go down to the cities and fight me, boy. That's what I've trained you for, and you'll do it. All right, was the unexpected response, rumbled apathetically from the deep chest.

And fight like hell, the old man added. Again, Stubner felt disappointed. appointment at the absence of flash and fire in the young man's eyes, as he answered, All right, when do we start? Oh, Sam, here, he'll be wanting a little hunting and to fish a bit, as well as to try you out with the gloves. He looked at Sam, who nodded. Suppose you strip and give him a taste of your quality. An hour later, Sam Stubner had his eyes opened, an ex-fighter himself, a heavyweight at that. He was even a better judge of fighters, and never had he seen one strip to like advantage. See the softness of him, old Pat chanted. Tis the true stuff. Look at the slope of the

shoulders and the lungs of him, clean, all clean to the last drop an ounce of him. You're looking at a man, Sam, the like of which was never seen before. Not a muscle of him bound, no weight-lifter or sandow exercise artists there. See the fat snakes of muscles are crawling soft and lazy-like? Wait, do you see them flashing, like a striking rattler? He's good for forty rounds this blessed instant, or a hundred. Go to it. Time! They went to it, for three-minute rounds with a-minute rests, and Sam Stubner was immediately undeceived. Here was no streak of fat, no apathy, only a lazy, good-natured play of gloves and tricks, with a brusque stiffness and harsh sharpness in the contacts that he knew belonged only to the trained and instinctive fighting man.

Easy now, easy, old Pat warned. Sam's not the man he used to be. This nettled Sam, as it was intended to do, and he played his most famous trick and favorite punch, a faint for a clinch and a right rip to the stomach. But, quickly as it was delivered, young Pat saw it, and, though it landed, his body was going away. The next time, his body did not go away. As the rip started, he moved forward and twisted his left hip to meet it. It was only a matter of several inches, yet it blocked the blow, and thereafter, try as he would, Stubner's glove got no farther than that hip. Stubner had roughed it with big men in his time,

and, in exhibition bouts, had credibly held his own. But there was no holding his own here. Young Pat played with him, and in the clenches made him feel as powerful as a baby, landing on him seemingly at will, blocking and blocking with masterful accuracy, and scarcely noticing or acknowledging his existence. Half the time young Pat seemed to spend in gazing off and out at the landscape

in a dreamy sort of way. And right here, Stubner made another mistake. He took it for a trick of old Pat's training, tried to sneak in a short arm jolt, found his arm in a lightning lock, and had both his ears cuffed for his pains. The instinct for a blow? The old man chortled.

"'Tis not put on, I'm telling you. He's a whiz. He knows a blow without the looking, when it starts and wear the speed and space and niceness of it. And tis nothing I ever showed him. Tis inspiration. He was so born. Once, in a clinch, the fight manager healed his glove on young Pat'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 other'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 the 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. He'll, he'll do, he gasped. Looking the admiration, he lacked the breath to utter. Old Pat's eyes were brightly moist, with pride and triumph.

And what you'll be thinking to happen when some of the gay and ugly ones tries to rough it on him? He asked. He'll kill them sure, was Stubner's verdict. No, he's too cool for that, but he'll just hurt them some for their dirtiness. "'Let's draw up the contract,' said the manager. "'Wait till you know the whole worth of him,' "'old Pat answered. "'Tis strong terms I'll be making you come to.

"'Go for a deer hunt with the boy over the hills "'and learn the lungs and the legs of him. "'Then we'll sign up iron-clad and regular.' "'Stubner was gone two days on that hunt, "'and he learned all and more than old Pat had promised, and came back a very weary and very humble man. The young fellow's innocence of the world had been startling to the case-hearted manager,

but he had found him nobody's fool, virgin though his mind was, untouched by all, save a narrow mountain experience, nevertheless he had proved possession of a natural keenness and shrewdness far beyond the average. In a way, he was a mystery to Sam, who could not understand his 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 cuss words of sissy boys.

I'd swear all right if I wanted to, he had explained, when challenged by his companion. But I guess I've never come to needing it. When I do, I'll swear, I suppose. Old Pat, resolutely adhering to his decision, said goodbye at the cabin. It won't be long, Pat, boy, when I'll be reading about you in the papers. I'd like to go along, but I'm afeard it's me for the mountains till the end. And then, drawing the manager aside, the old man turned loose on him, almost savagely. Remember what I have been telling you over and over. The boy's clean and he's honest. He knows nothing of the rottenness of the game. I kept it all away from him, I tell you. He don't know the meaning of fake. He knows only the bravery and romance and glory of fighting.

And I've filled him up with tales of the old ring here. heroes. Though little enough, God knows, it set him a fire. Man, man, I'm telling you that I clipped the fight columns from the newspapers to keep it away from him, him thinking I was wanting them for his scrapbook. He don't know a man ever lay down or through a fight. So don't you get him in anything that ain't straight. Don't turn the boy's stomach. That's why I put in the null and void clause. The first rottenness and the contracts broke of its same. self. No snide division of stake money, no secret arrangements with the moving picture

men for guaranteed distance. There's slathers of money for the both of you. But play it square, or you lose, understand. And whatever you'll be doing, watch out for the women. Was old Pat's parting admonishment, young Pat astride his horse, and reining in dutifully to hear. Women is death and damnation. Remember that. But when you do find the one, the only one, hang on to her. She'll be worth more than glory and money. But first be sure, and when you're sure, don'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 and smithereens. Pat, boy, a good woman is. A good woman. Tis the first. Tis the first.

word in the last. End of chapters one and two. Chapters three, four, and five of the abysmal brute by Jack London. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 3 Once in San Francisco, Sam Stubner'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. "'I came down here to fight,' he announced at the end of the first week. "'Where's Jim Hanford?' Stubner whistled. "'A big champion like him wouldn't look at you, was his answer. Go and get a reputation as what he'd say.

I can lick him. But the public doesn't know that. If you licked him, you'd be champion of the world, and no champion ever became so with his first fight. I can. But the public doesn't know it, Pat. It wouldn't come to see you fight. And it's the crowd that brings the money in the big purses. That's why Jim Hanford wouldn't consider you for a second. There'd be nothing. nothing in it for him. Besides, he's getting $3,000 a week right now in vaudeville, with a contract for 25 weeks. Do you think he'd chucked that for a go with the man no one ever heard of? You've got to do something first. Make a record. You've got to begin on the local dubs that nobody ever heard of. Guys like Chubb Collins, Roughhouse Kelly, and the Flying Dutchman. When you've put them away, you're only started on the first round of the latter. but after that you'll go up like a balloon. I'll meet those three named in the same ring, one after the other, was Pat's decision.

Make the arrangements accordingly. Stubner laughed. What's wrong, don't you think I can put them away? I know you can, Stubner assured him, but it can't be arranged that way. You've got to take them one at a time. Besides, remember, I know the game and I'm managing you. This proposition has to be worked up, and I'm the boy that knows how.

If we're lucky, you may get to the top in a couple of years and be the champion with a mint of money. Pat sighed at the prospect, then brightened up. And after that I can retire and go back home to the old man, he said. Stubner 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, Stubner 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 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 Stubner 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 rounds. Yes, they would grant him that,

but the main event? Never. Stubner was resolved that young Pat should make his debut 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 15 rounds with Ruff House Kelly for a purse of $100. 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 Stubner held his piece. It was a good press surprise package to spring later. Came the night of the fight. After a month of waiting, Stubner'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. "'Cheer up, boy,' Stubner said, slapping him on the shoulder. The first time, 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. It isn't that, Pat answered. It's the tobacco smoke. I'm not used to it, and it's making me fair sick. 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 the tobacco. Ack of smoke, the youngster would have to get used to it. That was all.

Young Pat's entrance into the ring had been met with silence, but when Ruff 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, naughty muscles, weighing a full 200 pounds. Pat looked across at him curiously and received a savage scow. 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, You've got your nerve with you. He flung Pat's hand roughly from his, and hissed, How eat you up, you pop? 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 Stubner. Why is he angry with me? He asked. He ain't, Stubner answered. That's his way, trying to scare you. It's just mouth-fighting. It isn't boxing, was Pat's comment, and Stubner, with a quick glance, noted that his eyes were as mildly blue as ever. Be careful, the manager warned. as the gong for the first round sounded, and Pat stood up. He's liable to come at you like a man-eater. And like a man-eater Kelly did come at him, rushing across the ring in a wild fury.

Pat, who in his easy way had advanced only a couple of paces, gauged the other'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 Kelly'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 second.

Half a minute later, Kelly's head lifted and his eyes wavered open. He looked about him stupidly, and then to one of his seconds. What happened? he queried hoarsely. Did the roof fall on me? Chapter 4 As a result of his fight with Kelly, though the general opinion was that he had won by a fluke, Pat was matched with Roof Mason. This took place three weeks later,

and the Sierra Club audience at Dreamland Rink failed to see what happened. Roof Mason was a heavyweight, noted locally for his cleverness. When the gong for the first round sounded, both men met in the center of the ring. Neither rushed, nor did they strike a blow. They felt around each other, their arms bent, their gloves so close together that they almost touched. This lasted for perhaps five. seconds. Then it happened, and so quickly that not one in a hundred of the audience saw. Roof Mason made a faint with his right. It was obviously not a real faint, but a feeler,

a mere tentative threatening of a possible blow. It was at this instant that Pat loosed his punch. So close were they that the distance the blow traveled was a scant eight inches. It was a short arm left jolt, and it was a cross. accomplished by a twist of the left forearm and a thrust of the shoulder. It landed flush on the point of the chin, and the astounded audience saw Roof Mason's legs crumple under him as his body sank to the floor. But the referee had seen, and he promptly proceeded to count him out. Again, Pat carried his opponent to his corner, and it was ten minutes before Roof Mason, supported by his seconds, with sagging knees and rolling,

glassy eyes, was able to move down the aisle through the stupefied and incredulous audience on the way to his dressing room. No wonder, he told a reporter, that Ruff House Kelly thought the roof hit him. After Chubb Collins had been put out in the 12th second of the first round of a 15-round contest, Stubner felt compelled to speak to Pat. Do you know what they're calling you now, he asked. Pat shook his head. One punch Glendon. Pat smiled politely. He was little interested in what he was called. He had certain work cut out, which he must do ere he could win back to his mountains, and he was phlegmatically doing it. That was all. It won't do, his manager continued, with an ominous shake of the head. You can't go on putting your men out so quickly. You must give them

more time. I'm here to fight, ain't I? Pat demanded in surprise. Again, Stubner shook his head. It's this way, Pat. You've got to be big and generous in the fighting game. Don't get all the other fighters sore. And it's not fair to the audience.

They want to run for their money. Besides, no one will fight you. They'll all be scared out. And you can't draw crowds with ten-second fights. I leave it to you. Would you pay a dollar or five to see a ten-second fight? Pat was convinced, and he promised to give future audiences the requisite run for their money, though he stated, personally, he preferred going fishing to witnessing a hundred rounds of fighting.

And still, Pat had got practically nowhere in the game. The local sports laughed when his name was mentioned. It called to mind funny fights and. and Ruff House Kelly's remark about the roof. Nobody knew how Pat could fight. They had never seen him. Where was his wind, his stamina, his ability to mix it with rough customers

through long, grueling contests? He had demonstrated nothing but the possession of a lucky punch and a depressing proclivity for flukes. So it was that his fourth match was arranged with Pete Saso, a Portuguese fighter from Butcher Town, known only for the amazing tricks he played in the ring. Pat did not train for the fight. Instead, he made a flying and sorrowful trip to the mountains to bury his father. Old Pat had known well the condition of his heart, and it had stopped suddenly on him. Young Pat arrived in San Francisco with so close a margin of time that he changed

into his fighting togs directly from his traveling suit, and even then the audience was kept waiting ten minutes. Remember, give him a chance, Stubner cautioned him as he climbed through the ropes. Play with him, but do it seriously. Let him go ten or twelve rounds, then get him. Pat obeyed instructions, and, though it would have been easy enough to put Soso out, so tricky was he that, to stand up to him and not put him out, kept his hands. full. It was a pretty exhibition, and the audience was delighted. Sasa's whirlwind attacks, wild faints, retreats, and rushes, required all Pat's science to protect himself, and even then he did not escape unscathed. Stubner praised him in the minute rests, and all would have been well,

had not Saso, in the fourth round, played one of his most spectacular tricks. Pat, in a mix-up, had landed a hook to Soso's jaw, when, to his amazement, the latter dropped his hands and reeled backward, eyes rolling, legs bending and giving, in a high state of groginess. Pat could not understand. It had not been a knockout blow, and yet there was his man all ready to fall to the mat. Pat dropped his own hands and wonderingly watched his reeling opponent. Sossos staggered away, almost fell, recovered, and staggered obliquely and blindly forward again. For the first and the last time in his fighting career, Pat was caught off his guard.

He actually stepped aside to let the reeling man go by. Steel reeling, Sasa suddenly loosed his right. Pat received it full on his jaw with an impact that rattled all his teeth. A great roar of delight went up from the audience, but Pat did not here. He saw only so-so before him, grinning and defiant, and not the least bit groggy. Pat was hurt by the blow,

but vastly more outraged by the trick. All the wrath that his father ever had surged up in him. He shook his head as if to get rid of the shock of the blow and steadied himself before his man. It all occurred in the next second, with a faint that drew his

opponent, Pat fetched his left to the solar plexus, almost at the same instant whipping his right across to the jaw. The latter blow landed on Saso's mouth ere his falling body struck the floor. The club doctors worked half an hour to bring him to. After that, they put 11 stitches in his mouth and packed him off in an ambulance. I'm sorry, Pat told his manager. I'm afraid I lost my temper. I'll never do it again in the ring. Dad always cautioned me about it. He said it had made him lose more than one battle. I didn't know I could lose my temper that way,

but now that I know, I'll keep it in control. And Stubner believed him. He was coming to the stage where he could believe anything about his young charge. You don't need to get angry, he said. You're so thoroughly the master of your man at any stage. At any inch or second of the first of the first, fight, Pat affirmed.

And you can put them out any time you want. Sure I can. I don't want to boast, but I just seem to possess the ability. My eyes show me the opening that my skill knows how to make, and time and distance are second nature

to me. Dad called it a gift, but I thought he was blurneying me. Now that I've been up against these men, I guess he was right. He said I had the mind and muscle correlation. At any inch or second of the fight, Stubner repeated musingly, Pat nodded, and Stubner, absolutely believing him, caught a vision of a golden future that should have

fetched old Pat out of his grave. Well, don't forget, we've got to give the crowd a run for its money, he said. We'll fix it up between us how many rounds a fight should go. Now your next spot will be with the flying Dutch. "'Suppose you let it run the full fifteen and put them out in the last round. "'That will give you a chance to make a showing as well.' "'All right, Sam,' was the answer. "'It will be a test for you,' Stubner warned.

"'You may fail to put him out in that last round.' "'Watch me.' Pat paused to put weight to his promise and picked up a volume of Longfellow. "'If I don't, I'll never read poetry again. and that's going some. You bet it is, his manager proclaimed jubilantly, though what you see in such stuff is beyond me. Pat sighed, but did not reply,

in all his life he had found but one person who cared for poetry, and that had been the red-haired schoolteacher who scared him off into the woods. Chapter 5. Where are you going? Stubner demanded in stuble, Surprise, looking at his watch. Pat, with his hand on the doorknob, paused and turned around. To the Academy of Sciences, he said. There's a professor who's going to give a lecture there on

Browning tonight, and Browning is the sort of writer you need assistance with. Sometimes I think I ought to go to night school. But great Scott, man, exclaimed the horrified manager. You're on with the flying Dutchman tonight. I know it, but I won't enter the round. a moment before half-past nine or quarter to ten, lecture will be over at nine-fifteen. If you want to make sure, come around and pick me up in your machine. Stubner shrugged his shoulders helplessly. You've got no kick coming, Pat assured him.

Dad used to tell me a man's worst time was in the hours just before a fight, and that many a fight was lost by a man's breaking down right there, with nothing to do but think and be anxious. Well, you'll never need to worry about me that way. You ought to be glad I can go off to a lecture. And later that night, in the course of watching 15 splendid rounds, Stubner chuckled to himself more than once at the idea of what that audience of sports would think, did it know that this magnificent young prize-fighter had come to the ring directly from a Browning lecture.

The Flying Dutchman was a young Swede who possessed the young, and unwanted willingness to fight, and who was blessed with phenomenal endurance. He never rested, was always on the offensive, and rushed and fought from gong to gong. In the outfighting, his arms whirled about like flails. In the infighting, he was forever shouldering or half-restling and starting blows whenever he could get a hand-free. From start to finish, he was a whirlwind, hence his name. His failing was his lack of judgment in time and distance. Nevertheless, he had won many fights, by virtue of landing one, in each dozen or so of the unending fuselades of punches he delivered. Pat, with strong upon him the caution that he must not put his opponent

out, was kept busy, nor, though he escaped vital damage, could he avoid entirely those eternal flying gloves, but it was good training, and in a mild way, he enjoyed the contest. Could you get him now? Stubner whispered in his ear during the minute rest at the end of the fifth round. Sure, was Pat's answer. You know, he's never been knocked out by anyone, Stubner warned a couple of rounds later. Then I'm afraid I'll have to break my knuckles. Pat smiled. I know the punch I've got in me, and when I learned, land it, something's got to go. If he won't, my knuckles will. Do you think you could get him now? Stubner asked at the end of the 13th round. Any time, I tell you. Well then, Pat, let him run to the 15th.

In the 14th round, the flying Dutchman exceeded himself. At the stroke of the gong, he rushed clear across the ring to the opposite corner where Pat was leisurely getting to his feet. The house cheered, for it knew the flying Dutchman had cut loose. Pat, catching the fun of it, whimsically decided to meet the terrific onslaught with a wholly passive defense, and not to strike a blow. Nor did he strike a blow, nor faint a blow, during the three minutes of whirlwind that followed. He gave a rare exhibition of stalling, sometimes hugging his bowed face with his left arm, his abdomen with his right.

At other times, changing as the point of attack changed, so that both gloves were held at either side of his face, or both elbows and forearms guarded his midsection, and all the time moving about, clumsily shouldering, or half falling forward against his opponent and clogging his efforts. himself never striking nor threatening to strike, the while rocking with the impacts of the storming blows that beat upon his various guards the devil's own tattoo.

Those close at the ringside saw and appreciated, but the rest of the audience, fooled, arose to its feet and roared its applause in the mistaken notion that Pat, helpless, was receiving a terrible beating. With the end of the round, the audience, dumbfounded, sank back into its seats as Pat walked steadily to his corner. It was not understandable. He should have been beaten to a pulp, and yet nothing had happened to him. Now are you going to get him? Stubner queried anxiously. Inside ten seconds, was Pat's confident assertion. Watch me.

There was no trick about it. When the gong struck and Pat bounded to his feet, he advertised it unmistakably that, for the first time in the fight, he was starting after his man. Not one onlooker misunderstood. The Flying Dutchman read the advertisement, too, and for the first time in his career, as they met in the center of the ring, visibly hesitated. For a fraction of a second, they faced each other in position. Then the Flying Dutchman. Lept forward upon his man, and Pat, with a timed right cross, dropped him cold as he leapt. It was after this battle that Pat Glendon started on his upward rush to fame.

The sports and the sporting riders took him up. For the first time the Flying Dutchman had been knocked out. His conqueror had proved a wizard of defense. His previous victories had not been flukes. He had a kick in both his hands, giant that. that he was, he would go far. The time was already passed, the writers asserted, for him to waste himself on the third raiders and chopping blocks, where were Ben Menzies, Reage Reed, Bill Tarwater, and Ernest Lawson? It was time for them to meet this young cub that had suddenly

shown himself a fighter of quality. Where was his manager, anyway, that he was not issuing the challenges? And then fame came in a day, for Stubner divulged the secret that his man was none other than the son of Pat Glendon, old Pat, the old-time ring hero. Young Pat Glendon, he was promptly christened, and sports and writers flocked about him to admire him and back him and write him up. Beginning with Ben Menzies and finishing with Bill Tarwater, he challenged five, and knocked out the four second raiders. To do this, he was compelled to travel, the battles taking place in Goldfield, Denver, Texas, and New York. To accomplish it required months, for the bigger fights were not easily arranged, and the men themselves demanded more time for training. The second year saw him running to cover and disposing of the half-dozen big

fighters that clustered just beneath the top of the heavyweight ladder. On this top, firmly planted, stood Big Jim Hanford, the undefeated world champion. Here, on the top rungs, progress was slower, though Stubner was indefatigable in issuing challenges and in promoting sporting opinion to force the man to fight. Will King was disposed of in England, and Glendon pursued Tom Harrison halfway around the world to defeat him on Boxing Day in Australia. But the purses grew larger and larger. In place of $100, such as his first battles had earned him, he was now receiving from $20,000 to $30,000 a fight, as well as equally large sums from the moving picture men. Stubner took his manager's percentage of all this, according to the terms of the contract Old Pat had drawn up,

and both he and Glendon, despite their heavy expenses, were waxing rich. This was due, more than anything else, to the clean lives they lived. They were not wasters. Stubner was attracted to real estate, and his holdings in San Francisco, consisting of building flats and apartment houses, were bigger than Lendon ever dreamed. There was a secret syndicate of betters, however, which could have made an accurate guess at the size of Stubner's holdings, while heavy bonus. after heavy bonus, of which Glendon never heard, was paid over to his manager by the moving picturemen. Stubner's most serious task was in maintaining the innocence of his young gladiator, nor did he find it difficult. Glendon, who had nothing to do with the business end, was little interested. Besides, wherever his travels took him, he spent his spare time in hunting

and fishing. He rarely mingled with those of the sporting world, was notoriously shy and secluded, and preferred art galleries and books of verse to sporting gossip. Also, his trainers and sparring partners were rigorously instructed by the manager to keep their tongues away from the slightest hints of ring rottenness. In every way, Stubner intervened between Glendon and the world. He was never even interviewed save in Stubner's presence. Only once was Glendon approached. It was just prior to his battle with Henderson, and an offer of a hundred thousand was made to him to throw the fight.

It was made hurriedly in swift whispers in a hotel corridor, and it was fortunate for the man that Pat controlled his temper and shouldered past him without reply. He brought the tale of it to Stubner, who said, It's only con, Pat. They were trying to josh you. He noted the blue eyes blaze. It may be worse than that.

If they could have got you to fall for it, there might have been a big sensation in the papers that would have finished you. But I doubt it. Such things don't happen anymore. It's a myth. That's what it is, that has come down from the middle history of the ring.

There has been rottenness in the past, but no fighter or manager of reputation would dare anything of the sort today. Why, Pat, the men in the game are as clean and straight as those in professional baseball, than which there is nothing cleaner or straighter. And all the while he talked, Stubner knew in his heart that the forthcoming fight with Henderson was not to be shorter than twelve rounds, this for the moving pictures, and not longer than the fourteenth round.

And he knew, furthermore, so bad a few more. so big were the stakes involved that Henderson himself was pledged not to last beyond the 14th. And Glendon, never approached again, dismissed the matter from his mind, and went out to spend the afternoon in taking color photographs. The camera had become his latest hobby. Loving pictures, yet unable to paint, he had compromised by taking up photography. In his hand baggage was one grip packed with books on the subject, and he spent long hours in the dark room, realizing for himself the various processes. Never had there been a great fighter who was as aloof from the fighting world as he, because he had little to say with those he encountered, he was called sullen and unsocial, and out of this a newspaper reputation took form that was not an exaggeration,

so much as it was an entire misconception. Boiled down, his character in print was that of an ox-muscled and dumbly stupid brute, and one callow sporting writer dubbed him the abysmal brute. The name stuck. The rest of the fraternity held it with delight, and thereafter Glendon's name never appeared in print, unconnected with it. Often in a headline or under a photograph, the abysmal. The abysmal. Brut, capitalized, and without quotation marks, appeared alone. All the world knew who was this brute. This made him draw into himself closer than ever, while it developed a bitter prejudice against newspaper folk. Regarding fighting itself, his earlier mild interest grew stronger. The men he now fought were anything but dubs, and victory did not come so easily. They were picked

men, experienced ring generals, and each battle was a problem. There were occasions when he found it impossible to put them out in any designated later round of a fight. Thus, with Salzberger, the gigantic German, try as he would in the 18th round, he failed to get him, and the 19th it was the same story, and not till the 20th did he manage to break through the baffling guard and drop him. Glendon's increasing enjoyment of the game was accompanied by severe and prolonged training. Never dissipating, spending much of his time on hunting trips in the hills, he was practically always in the pink of condition,

and, unlike his father, no unfortunate accidents marred his career. He never broke a bone, nor injured so much as a knuckle. One thing that Stubner noted with secret glee was that that his young fighter no longer talked of going permanently back to his mountains when he had won the championship away from Jim Hanford. End of chapters 3, 4, and 5. Chapter 6 and 7 of the Abysmal Brute by Jack London. This Librevox recording is in the public domain.

Chapter 6 The consummation of his career was rapidly approaching. The great champion had even publicly intimated his readiness to take on Glendon as soon as the latter had disposed of the three or four aspirants for the championship who intervened. In six months, Pat managed to put away Kid McGrath and Philadelphia Jack McBride, and there remained only Nat Powers and Tom Conom. And all would have been well, had not a certain society girl gone adventuring into journalism, and had not Stubner agreed to an interview with the woman reporter of the San Francisco

Courier Journal. Her work was always published over the name of Maude Sankster, which, by the way, was her own name. The Sanksters were a notoriously wealthy family. The founder, old Jacob Sankster, had packed his blankets and worked as a farmhand in the West. He had discovered an inexhaustible Borax deposit in Nevada, and, from hauling it out by mule teams, had built a railroad to do the freighting. Following that, he had poured the profits of Borax into the purchase of hundreds and thousands of square miles of timberlands in California, Oregon, and Washington. Still later, he had combined politics with business, bought statesmen, judges and machines, and become a captain of complicated industry. And after that, he had died, full of honor and pessimism,

leaving his name a muddy blot for future historians to smudge, and also leaving a matter of a couple of hundreds of millions for his four sons to squabble over. The legal, industrial, and political battles that followed vexed and amused California for a generation, and culminated in deadly hatred and unspeaking terms between the four sons. The youngest, Theodore, in middle life, experienced a change of heart, sold out his stock farms and racing stables, and plunged into a fight with all the corrupt powers of his native state, including most of its millionaires,

in a quixotic attempt to purge it of the infamy which had been implanted by old Jacob's Sancter, Maud Sankster was Theodore's oldest daughter. The Sankster stock uniformly bred fighters among the men and beauties among the women. Nor was Maud an exception. Also, she must have inherited some of the virus of adventure from the Sankster breed, for she had come to womanhood and done a multitude of things of which no woman in her position should have been guilty. A match in 10,000, remained unmarried. She had sojourned in Europe without bringing home a noble man for spouse, and had declined a goodly portion of her own set at home. She had gone in for outdoor sports,

won the tennis championship of the state, kept a society weeklies agog with her unconventionalities, walked from San Matea to Santa Cruz against time on a wager, and once caused a sensation by playing polo in a men's team at a private Burlingame practice game. Incidentally, she had gone in for art and maintained a studio in San Francisco's Latin quarter. All this had been of little moment until her father's reform attack became acute, passionately independent, never yet having met the man to whom she could gladly submit and bored by those who had aspired, she resented her father's interference with her way of life, and put the climax on all her social misdeeds by leaving home and going to work on the Courier Journal.

Beginning at $20 a week, her salary had swiftly risen to 50. Her work was principally musical, dramatic, and art criticism, although she was not above mere journalistic stunts if they promised to be sufficiently interesting. Thus, she scooped the big interview with Morgan at a time when he was being futilely trailed by a dozen New York star journalists, went down to the bottom of the Golden Gate and a diver suit, and flew with Rude, the Birdman, when he broke all records of continuous flight by reaching as far as Riverside. Now, it must not be imagined that Mod Sangster was a hard-bitten Amazon. On the contrary, she was a gray-eyed, slender young woman.

woman of three or four and twenty, of medium stature, and possessing uncommonly small hands and feet for an outdoor woman, or any other kind of woman. Also, far in excess of most outdoor women, she knew how to be daintily feminine. It was on her own suggestion that she received the editor's commission to interview Pat Glendon, with the exception of having caught a glimpse, once, of Bob Fitzsimmons in evening dress at the Palace Grill, she had never seen a prize-fighter in her life, nor was she curious to see one. At least she had not been curious until young Pat Glendon came to San Francisco to train for his fight with Nat Powers. Then his newspaper reputation had aroused her, the abysmal brute. It certainly must be worth seeing.

From what she read of him, she gleaned that he had aroused her. She gleaned that he was a roused her. The abysmal brute, it certainly must be worth seeing. From what she read of him, she gleaned that he was a man-monster, profoundly stupid, and with the solanness and ferocity of a jungle beast. True, his published photographs did not show all that, but they did show the hugeness of brawn that might be expected to go with it. And so, accompanied by a staff photographer, she went out to the training quarters at the Cliff House, on the hour appointed by Stubner. The real estate owner was having to be a staff photographer. The real estate owner was having trouble. Pat was rebellious. He sat, one big leg dangling over the side of the armchair, and Shakespeare sonnets faced downward on his knee, or raiding against the new woman.

"'What do they want to come butting into the game for?' he demanded. "'It's not their place. What do they know about it anyway? The men are bad enough as it is. I'm not a holy show. This woman's coming here to make me one. I never have stood for women around the training quarters, and I don't care if she is a reporter. But she's not an ordinary reporter. Stubner interposed. You've heard of the Sangsters? The millionaires?

Pat nodded. Well, she's one of them. She's high society and all that stuff. She could be running with the Blingham crowd now if she wanted to, instead of working for wages. Her old man's worth fifty millions if he's worth a cent. Then what's she working on a paper for, keeping some poor devil out of a job? She and the old man fell out, had a tiff or something about the time he started to clean up, San Francisco. She quit. That's all. Left home and got a job. And let me tell you one thing, Pat. She can

everlastingly sling English. There isn't a pen pusher on the coast can touch her when she gets going. Pat began to show interest, and Stubner hurried on. She writes poetry, too. The regular Lottie-Daw stuff, just like you. Only I guess hers is better, because she published a whole book of it once. And she writes up the shows. She interviews every big actor that hits this burg. I've seen her name in the papers, Pat commented.

Sure you have, and you're honored, Pat, by her coming to interview you. It won't bother you any. I'll stick right by and give her most of the dope myself. You know, I've always done that. Pat looked his gratitude. And another thing, Pat, don't forget you've got to put up with this interviewing. It's part of your business. It's big advertising and it comes free.

We can't buy it. It interests people, draws the crowds, and it's crowds that pile up the gate receipts. He stopped and listened, then looked at his watch. I think that's her now. I'll go and get her and bring her in. I'll tip it off to her to cut it short, you know, and it won't take long. He turned in the doorway.

And be decent, Pat, don't shut up like a clam. Talk a bit to her when she asks you questions. Pat put the sonnets on the table, took up a newspaper, and was apparently deep in its contents when the two entered the room, and he stood up. The meeting was a mutual shock. When blue eyes met gray, it was almost as if the man and the woman shouted triumphantly to each other, as if each had found something sought and unexpected. But this was for the instant only.

Each had anticipated in the other something so totally different that the next moment, the clear cry of recognition gave way to confusion. As is the way of women, she was the first to achieve. control, and she did it without having given any outward signal that she had ever lost it. She advanced most of the distance across the floor to meet Glendon. As for him, he scarcely knew how he stumbled through the introduction. Here was a woman. A woman! He had not known that such a creature could exist.

The few women he had noticed had never prefigured this. He wondered what old Pat's judgment would have been of her. If she was the sword he had recommended to hang on to with both his hands, he discovered that in some way he was holding her hand. He looked at it, curious and fascinated, marvelling at its fragility. She, on the other hand, had proceeded to obliterate the echoes of that first clear call. It had been a peculiar experience, that was all, this sudden outrush of her toward this strange man, for was not he the abysmal brute of the prize-ring,

the great, fighting, stupid bulk of a male animal who hammered up his fellow males in the same stupid order? She smiled at the way he continued to hold her hand. "'I'll have it back, please, Mr. Glendon,' she said. "'I really need it, you know.' He looked at her blankly, followed her gaze to her imprisoned hand, and dropped it in a rush of awkwardness,

that sent the blood in a manifest blush to his face. She noted the blush, and the thought came to her that he did not seem quite the uncouth brute she had pictured. She could not conceive of a brute blushing at anything, and also she found herself pleased with the fact that he lacked the easy glibness to murmur in apology, but the way he devoured her with his eyes was disconcerting. He stared at her as if in a trance, while his cheeks flushed, even more redly.

Stubner by this time had fetched a chair for her, and Glendon automatically sank down into his. He's in fine shape, Miss Sangster, in fine shape, the manager was saying, That's right, isn't it, Pat? Never felt better in your life. Glendon was bothered by this. His brows contracted in a troubled way, and he made no reply. "'I've wanted to meet you for a long time, Mr. Glendon,' "'Miss Sangster said. "'I never interviewed a pugilist before, "'so if I don't go about it expertly,

"'you'll forgive me, I'm sure.' "'Maybe you'd better start in by seeing him in action,' "'was the manager's suggestion. "'While he's getting into his fighting togs, "'I can tell you a lot about him. "'Fresh stuff, too. "'We'll call in Walsh, Pat, and go a couple of rounds.' "'We'll do nothing of the sort.'

Glendon growled roughly, in just the way an abysmal brute should. Go ahead with the interview. The business went ahead, unsatisfactorily. Stubner did most of the talking and suggesting, which was sufficient to irritate Mod Sangster, while Pat volunteered nothing. She studied his fine countenance, the eyes clear blue and wide apart, the well-modelled, almost aquiline nose, the firm chaste lips that were sweet in a masculine way in their curl at the corners,

and that gave no hint of any sullenness. It was a baffling personality, she concluded, if what the paper said of him was so, in vain she sought for earmarks of the brute, and in vain she attempted to establish contacts. For one thing, she knew too little about prize fighters and the ring, and whenever she opened up a lead, It was promptly snatched away by the information oozing, Stubner.

It must be most interesting, this life of a pugilist, she said once, adding with a sigh. I wish I knew more about it. Tell me, why do you fight, oh, aside from money reasons, this latter to forestall Stubner. Do you enjoy fighting? Are you stirred by it, by pitting yourself against other men? I hardly know how to express what I mean, so you must be patient with me. Pat and Stubner began speaking together, but for once Pat bore his manager down. I didn't care for it at first. You see, it was too dead easy for him, Stubner interrupted. But later, Pat went on, when I encountered the better fighters, the real big clever ones, where I was more,

"'On your medal?' she suggested. "'Yes, that's it. More on my medal. I found I did care for it, a great deal, in fact. But still, it's not so absorbing to me as it might be. You see, while each battle is a sort of a problem, which I must work out with my wits and muscle, yet to me the issue is never in doubt. He's never had a fight go to a decision,' Stubner proclaimed. He's won every battle by the knockout route. And it's this certainty of the outcome that robs it of what I imagine must be its finest thrills. Pat concluded, maybe you'll get some of them thrills when you go up against Jim Hanford, said the manager. Pat smiled, but did not speak. Tell me some more, she urged,

more about the way you feel when you are fighting. And then Pat amazed his manager, Miss Sangster, and himself by blurting out, "'It seems to me I don't want to talk with you on such things. It's as if there are things more important for you and me to talk about. He stopped abruptly, aware of what he was saying, but unaware of why he was saying it.' "'Yes,' she cried eagerly. "'That's it. This is what makes a good interview,

the real personality, you know.' But Pat remained tongue-tied, and Stubner wandered away on a statistical comparison of his champion's weights, measurements, and expansions, with those of Sandow, the Terrible Turk, Jeffreys, and the other modern strong men. This was of little interest to Maude Sankster, and she showed that she was bored. Her eyes chanced to rest on the sonnets. She picked the book up, and glanced inquiringly at Stubner. That's Pats, he said. He goes in for that kind of stuff, and color photography, and art exhibits, and such things.

But for heaven's sakes, don't publish anything about it. It would ruin his reputation. She looked accusingly at Glendon, who immediately became awkward. To her it was delicious, a shy young man with the body of a giant, who was one of the kings of bruisers, and who read poetry and went to art exhibits and experimented with color photography. Of a surety there was no abysmal brute here. His very shyness, she divined now,

was due to sensitiveness and not stupidity. Shakespeare's sonnets! This was a phase that would bear investigation. But Stubner stole the opportunity away and was back chanting his everlasting statistics. A few minutes later, and most unwittingly, She opened up the biggest lead of all. That first sharp attraction toward him had begun to stir again

after the discovery of the sonnets. The magnificent frame of his, the handsome face, the chaste lips, the clear-looking eyes, the fine forehead which the short crop of blonde hair did not hide, the aura of physical well-being and cleanness, which he seemed to emanate, all this and more that she sensed. drew her as she had never been drawn by any man, and yet, through her mind kept running,

the nasty rumors that she had heard only the day before at the Courier-Journal office. "'You were right,' she said. "'There is something more important to talk about. "'There is something in my mind I want you to reconcile for me. "'Do you mind?' Pat shook his head. "'If I am frank, abominably frank. I've heard that men, sometimes, talking of particular fights and of the betting odds,

and, while I gave no heed to it at the time, it seemed to me it was firmly agreed that there was a great deal of trickery and cheating connected with the sport. Now, when I look at you, for instance, I find it hard to understand how you can be a party to such cheating. I can understand you're liking the sport for a sport, as well as for the money it brings you, but I can't understand. There's nothing to understand, Stubner broke in, while Pat's lips were wreathed in a gentle, tolerant smile. It's all fairy tales, this talk about faking, about fixed fights, and all that brought. There's nothing to it, Miss Sanxter, I assure you. And now let me tell you about how I discovered Mr. Glendon. It was a letter I got from his father.

But Mod Sangster refused to be sidetracked. And a... addressed herself to Pat. Listen, I remember one case particularly. It was some fight that took place several months ago. I forget the contestants. One of the editors of the Courier Journal told me he intended to make a good winning. He didn't hope. He said he intended.

He said he was on the inside and was betting on the number of rounds. He told me the fight would end in the 19th. This was the night before. and the next day he triumphantly called my attention to the fact that it had ended in that very round. I didn't think anything of it one way or the other. I was not interested in prize-fighting then, but I am now. At the time it seemed quite in accord with the vague conception I had about fighting. So you see, it isn't all fairy tales, is it?

I know that fight, Glendon said. It was Owen and Mergweather, and it is. It did end in the 19th round, Sam, and she said she heard that round named the day before. How do you account for it, Sam? How do you account for a man picking a lucky lottery ticket? The manager evaded, while getting his wits together to answer. That's the very point. Men who study form and condition in seconds and rules and such things often pick the number of rounds,

just as men have been known to pick 100 to one shots in the races. And don't forget one thing. For every man that wins, there's another that loses. There's another that didn't pick right. Miss Sangster, I assure you, on my honor, that faking and fixing in the fight game is, is nonexistent. What's your opinion, Mr. Glendon? she asked. The same as mine.

Stubner snatched the answer. He knows what I say is true every word of it. He's never fought any. anything but a straight fight in his life. Isn't that right, Pat? Yes, it's right, Pat affirmed, and the peculiar thing to Mod Sangster was that she was convinced he spoke the truth. She brushed her forehead with her hand, as if to rid herself of the bepuzzlement that clouded her brain. Listen, she said. Last night the same editor told me that your forthcoming fight was arranged

to the very round in which it would end. Stubner was verging on a panic, but Pat's speech saved him from replying, Then the editor lies! Pat's voice boomed now for the first time. He did not lie before about that other fight, she challenged. What round did he say my fight with Nat Powers would end in? Before she could answer, the manager was into the thick of it.

"'Oh, rats, Pat,' he cried. "'Shut up. It's only the regular run of ring rumors. Let's get on with this interview.' He was ignored by Glendon, whose eyes, bent on hers, were no longer mildly blue, but harsh and imperative. She was sure now that she had stumbled on something tremendous, something that would explain all that had baffled her. At the same time, she thrilled to the mastery of his voice and gaze.

Here was a male man who would take hold of life and shake out of it what he wanted. What round did the editor say? Glendon reiterated his demand. For the love of Mike Pat, stop this foolishness, Stubner broke in. I wish you would give me a chance to answer, Maud Sankster said. I guess I'm able to talk with Miss Sankster, Glendon added. You get out, Sam. Go off and take care of that photographer. They looked at each other for a tense, silent moment, then the manager moved slowly to the door,

opened it, and turned his head to listen. And now what round did he say? I hope I haven't made a mistake, she said tremulously, but I am very sure that he said the sixteenth round. She saw surprise and anger leap into Glendon's face, and the anger and accusation in the glance he cast at his manager, and she knew the blow had driven home. And there was reason for his anger. He knew he had talked it over with Stubner, and they had reached a decision to give the audience a

good run for its money without unnecessarily prolonging the fight and to end it in the 16th. And here was a woman from a newspaper office, naming the very round. Stubner, in the doorway, looked limp and pale, and it was evident he was holding himself together by an effort. I'll see you later, Pat told him. Shut the door behind you. The door closed, and the two were left alone. Glendon did not speak. The expression on his face was frankly one of trouble and perplexity. Well, she asked. He got up. He got up. and towered above her, then sat down again, moistening his lips with his tongue.

"'I'll tell you one thing,' he finally said. "'The fight won't end in the 16th round.' She did not speak, but her unconvinced and quizzical smile hurt him. "'You wait and see, Miss Sangster, and you'll see that editor man is mistaken.' "'You mean the program is to be changed?' she queried audaciously. He quivered to the cut of her words. "'I am not accustomed to lying,' he said stiffly, even to women.

"'Neither have you to me, nor have you denied the program is to be changed. Perhaps, Mr. Glendon, I am stupid, but I fail to see the difference, in what number the final round occurs, so long as it is predetermined and known.' "'I'll tell you that round, and not another soul shall know. She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. It sounds to me very much like a racing tip. They are always given that way, you know. Furthermore, I am not quite stupid, and I know there is something wrong here.

Why were you made angry by my naming the round? Why were you angry with your manager? Why did you send him from the room? For reply, Glendon walked over to the window, as if to look out, where he changed his mind and, and partly turned, and she knew, without seeing, that he was studying her face. He came back and sat down. "'You've said I haven't lied to you, Miss Sangster, and you were right. I haven't.' He paused, groping painfully for a correct statement of the situation.

"'Now do you think you can believe what I'm going to tell you? Will you take the word of a prize-fighter?' She nodded gravely, looking him, in the eyes, and certain that what he was about to tell was the truth. I've always fought straight and square. I've never touched a piece of dirty money in my life, nor attempted a dirty trick. Now I can go on from that. You've shaken me up pretty badly by what you told me. I don't know what to make of it. I can't pass a snap judgment on it. I don't know. But it looks bad. That's what troubles me. For see you, Stubner and I have talked this fight over, and it was understood between us that I would end the fight in the 16th round.

Now you bring the same word. How did that editor know? Not for me. Stubner must have let it out, and unless— He stopped to debate the problem. Unless that editor is a lucky guesser. I can't make up my mind about it. I'll have to keep my eyes open and wait.

and learn. Every word I've given you is straight, and there's my hand on it. Again he towered out of his chair and over to her. Her small hand was gripped in his big one as she arose to meet him, and after a fair, straight look into the eyes between them, both glanced unconsciously at the clasped hands. She felt that she had never been more aware that she was a woman. The sex emphasis of the those two hands, the soft and fragile feminine, and the heavy, muscular, masculine, was startling. Glendon was the first to speak. You could be hurt so easily, he said, and at the same time, she felt the firmness of his grip, almost caressingly relax. She remembered the old Prussian King's love for giants, and laughed at the incongruity of the thought association as she withdrew her

hand. "'I am glad you came here to-day,' he said, then hurried on awkwardly to make an explanation which the warm light of admiration in his eyes belied. "'I mean because, maybe you have opened my eyes to the crooked dealing that has been going on.' "'You have surprised me,' she urged. "'It seemed to me that it is. is so generally understood that prize-fighting is full of crookedness that I cannot understand how you, one of its chief exponents, could be ignorant of it. I thought as a matter of course that you would

know all about it, and now you have convinced me that you never dreamed of it. You must be different from other fighters.' He nodded his head. "'That explains it, I guess, and that's what comes of keeping away from it, from the other fighters and promoters and sports. It was easy to pull the wool over my eyes, yet it remains to be seen whether it really has been pulled over

or not. You see, I'm going to find out for myself. And change it? She queried, rather breathlessly, convinced somehow that he could do anything he set out to accomplish. No, quit it, was his answer. If it isn't straight,

I won't have anything more to do with it. And one thing is certain. This coming flight with Nat Powers won't end in the 16th round. If there is any truth in that editor's tip, they'll all be fooled. Instead of putting him out in the 16th, I'll let the fight run on into the 20s.

You wait and see. And I'm not to tell the editor? She was on her feet now, preparing to go. Certainly not. If he is only guessing, Let him take his chances. And if there's anything rotten about it, he deserves to lose all he bets. This is to be a little secret between you and me.

I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll name the round to you. It won't run into the twenties. I'll stop Nat Powers in the 18th. And I'll not whisper it, she assured him. I'd like to ask you a favor, he said tentatively. Maybe it's a big favor. She showed her acquiescence in her face, as if it were already granted, and he went on.

Of course, I know you won't use this faking in the interview, but I want more than that. I don't want you to publish anything at all. She gave him a quick look with her searching gray eyes, then surprised herself by her answer. Certainly, she said, it will not be published. I won't write a long. of it. I knew it, he said simply. For the moment, she was disappointed by the lack of thanks, and the next moment she was glad that he had not thanked her. She sensed the different foundation he was building under this meeting of an hour with her, and she became daringly explorative. How did you know it? she asked. I don't know, he shook his head. I can't explain. I can't

explain it. I knew it as a matter of course. Somehow it seems to me, I know a lot about you and me. But why not publish the interview? As your manager says, it is good advertising. I know it, he answered slowly. But I don't want to know you that way. I think it would hurt if you should publish it. I don't want to think that I knew you professionally. I'd like to remember our talk here, as a talk between a man and a woman. I don't know whether you understand what I'm driving at, but it's the way I feel. I want to remember this, just as a man and a woman.

As he spoke, in his eyes was all the expression with which a man looks at a woman. She felt the force and beat of him, and she felt strangely tongue-tied and awkward, before this man, who had been reputed, tongue-tied and awkward. He could certainly talk straighter to the point and more convincingly than most men, and what struck her most forcibly was her own inborn certainty that it was mere naive and simple frankness on his part and not a practiced artfulness.

He saw her into her machine and gave her another thrill when he said, by. Once again, their hands were clasped, as he said, "'Someday I'll see you again. I want to see you again. Somehow, I have a feeling that the last word has not been said between us.' As the machine rolled away, she was aware of a similar feeling. She had not seen the last of this very disquieting Pat Glendon, king of the bruisers and abysmal brute. Back in the training quarters, Glendon encountered his perturbed manager.

What did you fire me out for? Stubner demanded. We're finished. A hell of a mess you've made. You've never stood for meeting a reporter alone before, and now you'll see when that interview comes out. Glendon, who had been regarding him with cool amusement, made as if to turn and pass on,

and then changed his mind. It won't come out, he said. Stubner looked up sharply. I asked her not to, Blendon explained. Then Stubner exploded, as if she'd kill a juicy thing like that. Blendon became very cold, and his voice was harsh and grating.

It won't be published, she told me so, and to doubt it is to call her a liar. The Irish flame was in his eyes, and by that, and by the unconscious clenching of his passioned wrought hands, Stubner, who knew the strength of them and of the man he faced, no longer dared to doubt. Chapter 7. It did not take Stubner long to find out that Glendon intended extending the distance of the fight, though try as he would he could get no hint of the number of the round.

He wasted no time, however, and privily clinched certain arrangements with Nat Powers and Nat Powers' manager. Powers had a faithful following of betters, and the betting syndicate was not to be denied its harvest. On the night of the fight, Maud's thankster was guilty of a more daring unconventionality than any she had yet committed, though no whisper of it leaked out to shock society. Under the protection of the editor, she occupied a ringside seat. Her hair and most of her face were hidden under a slouch hat, while she wore a man's long overcoat that fell to her heels. Entering in the thick of the crowd, she was not noticed, nor did the newspaper men, in the press seats against the ring directly in front of her, recognize her. As was the growing custom,

were no preliminary bouts, and she had barely gained her seat when roars of applause announced the arrival of Nat Powers. He came down the aisle in the midst of a seconds, and she was almost frightened by the formidable bulk of him. Yet he leaped the ropes as lightly as a man half his weight, and grinned acknowledgment to the tumultuous greeting that arose from all the house. He was not pretty. Two cauliflower ears attested his profession and its attendant brutality, while his broken nose had been so often spread over his face as to defy the surgeon's art to reconstruct it. Another uproar heralded the arrival of Glendon, and she watched him eagerly as he went through the ropes to his corner. But it was not until the tedious time of announcements,

introductions and challenges was over, that the two men threw off their wraps and faced each other in ring costume. Concentrated upon them from overhead was the white glare of many electric lights, this for the benefit of the moving picture cameras, and she felt, as she looked at the two sharply contrasted men, that it was in Glendon that she saw the thoroughbred and in powers the abysmal brute. Both looked their parts. Glendon, clean-cut in face and form, softly and massively beautiful,

powers, almost asymmetrically rugged, and heavily matted with hair. As they made their preliminary pose for the cameras, confronting each other in fighting attitudes, it chanced that Glendon's gaze dropped down through the ropes and rested on her face. Though he gave no sign, she knew, with a swift leap of the heart, that he had recognized her.

The next moment, the gong sounded, the announcer cried, let her go, and the battle was on. It was a good fight. There was no blood, no marring, and both were clever. Half of the first round was spent in feeling each other out, but Maude Sankster found the play in faint and tap of the gloves, sufficiently exciting. During some of the fiercer rallies in later stages of the fight, the editor was compelled to touch her arm to remind her who she was and where she was. Powers fought easily and cleanly, as became the hero of half a hundred ring battles, and an admiring clack applauded his every cleverness. Yet he did not unduly exert himself, save in occasional strenuous rallies that brought the

audience yelling to its feet in the mistaken notion that he was getting his man. It was at such a moment when her unpracticed eye could not inform her that Glendon was escaping serious damage, that the editor leaned to her and said, Young Pat will win all right, he's a comer, and they can't stop him, but he'll win in the sixteenth and not before. Or after, she asked. She almost laughed at the certitude of her companion. She knew better. Powers was noted for hunting his man from moment to moment and round to round,

and Glendon was content to accede to this program. His defense was admirable, and he threw in just enough of offense to whet the edge of the audience's interest. Though he knew he was scheduled to lose, Powers had had too long a ring experience to hesitate from knocking his man out if the opportunity offered. He had had the double cross worked too often on him to be chary in working it on others. If he got his chance, he was prepared to knock his man out and let the syndicate go hang. Thanks to clever press publicity, the idea was prevalent that at last young Linden had met his master. In his heart, Powers, however, knew that it was himself who had encountered the better man. More than once, in the faster infighting, he received the weight of punches that

he knew had been deliberately made no heavier. On Glendon's part, there were times and times when a slip or error of judgment could have exposed him to one of his antagonists' sledgehammer blows and lost him the fight. Yet his was that almost miraculous power of accurate timing and distancing, and his confidence was not shaken by the several close shaves he experienced. He had never lost a fight, never been knocked down, and he had always been so thoroughly the master of the man he faced that such a possibility was unthinkable. At the end of the 15th round, both men were in good condition,

though Powers was breathing a trifle heavily, and there were men in the ringside seats offering odds that he would blow up. It was just before the gong for the 16th round struck, that Stubner, leaning in over Glendon from behind in his corner, whispered, are you going to get him now? Glendon, with the back toss of his head, shook it and laughed mockingly up into his manager's anxious face. With the stroke of the gong for the 16th round, Glendon was surprised to see powers cut loose. From the first second it was a tornado of fighting, and Glendon was hard put to escape serious damage. He blocked, clinched, ducked, sidestepped, was rushed backward against the ropes and was met by fresh rushes when he surged

out to center. Several times powers left inviting openings, but Glendon refused to loose the lightning bolt of a blow that would drop his man. He was reserving that blow for two rounds later. Not in the whole fight had he ever exerted his full strength, nor struck with the force that was in him. For two minutes, without the slightest let-up, Powers went at him, hammer and tongs. In another minute the round would be over, and the betting syndicate hard hit. But that minute was not to be. They had just come together in the center of the ring. It was as ordinary a clinch as any in the fight, save that Powers was struggling and roughing it every instant. Glendon whipped his left over in a crisp but easy jolt to the side of the face.

It was like any of a score of similar jolts he had already delivered in the course of the fight. To his amazement, he felt powers go limp in his arms and begin sinking to the floor on sagging, spraddling legs that refused to bear his weight. He struck the floor with a thump, rolled half over on his side, and lay with closed eyes and motionless. The referee, bending over him, was shouting the count. At the cry of nine, powers quivered as if making a vain effort to rise. "'Ten and out!' cried the referee.

He caught Glendon's hand and raised it aloft to the roaring audience in token that he was the winner. For the first time in the ring, Glendon was dazed. It had not been a knockout blow. He could stake his life on that. It had not been to the jaw, but to the side of the face, and he knew it had gone there and nowhere else. Yet the man was out, had been counted out, and he had faked it beautifully. That final thump on the floor had been a convincing masterpiece. To the audience it was indubitably a knockout, and the moving picture machines would perpetuate the lie.

The editor had called the turn after all, and a crooked turn, it was. Glendon shot a swift glance through the ropes to the face of Maud Sankster. She was looking straight at him, but her eyes were bleak and hard, and there was neither recognition nor expression in them. Even as he looked, she turned away unconcernedly and said something to the man beside her. Powers's seconds were carrying him to his corner, a seeming limp wreck of a man, Glendon's seconds were advancing upon him to congratulate him and to remove his gloves, but Stubner was ahead of them. His face was beaming as he caught Glendon's right glove in both his hands and cried,

Good boy, Pat, I knew you'd do it. Glendon pulled his glove away, and, for the first time in the years they had been together, his manager heard him swear. You go to hell, he said, and turned to the first. to hold out his hands for his seconds to pull off the gloves. End of chapters six and seven. Chapters eight and nine of the Abysmal Brute by Jack London. This Librevox recording is in the public domain.

Chapter 8 That night, after receiving the editor's final dictum, that there was not a square fighter in the game, Maude Sankster cried quietly for a moment on the edge of her bed, grew angry, and went to sleep hugely disgusted with herself, prize fighters, and the world in general. The next afternoon she began work on an interview with Henry Addison that was destined never to be finished. It was in the private room that was accorded her at the Courier Journal office, that the thing happened. She had paused in her writing to glance at a headline in the afternoon paper,

announcing that Glendon was matched with Tom Canom, when one of the doorboys brought in a card. It was Glendon's. Tell him I can't be seen, she told the boy. In a minute he was back. He says he's coming in anyway, but he'd rather have your permission. Did you tell him I was busy? she asked. Yes, him, but he said he was coming just the same. She made no answer, and the boy, his eyes shining with admiration for the

importunate visitor, rattled on. I know him. He's an awful big guy. If he started roughhousing, he could clean the whole office out. He's young London, who won the fight last night. Very well, then. Bring him in. We don't want the office cleaned out, you know.

No greetings were exchanged when Glendon entered. She was as cold and inhospitable as a gray day, and neither invited him to a chair, nor recognized him with her eyes, sitting half turned away from him at her desk, and waiting for him to state his business. He gave no sign of how this cavalier treatment affected him, but plunged directly into his subject. I want to talk to you. I want to talk to you. you, he said shortly. That fight, it did end in that round. She shrugged her shoulders. I knew it would. You didn't, he retorted. You didn't. You didn't. I didn't. She turned and looked at him with quiet affectation of boredom. What is the use? She asked. Price fighting is price fighting, and we all know what it means. The fight did end in the round I told you it would.

It did, he agreed, but you didn't know it would. In all the world, you and I were at least two that new powers wouldn't be knocked out in the 16th. She remained silent. I say you knew he wouldn't. He spoke peremptorily, and when she still declined to speak, stepped nearer to her. Answer me, he commanded. She nodded her head. But he was, she insisted. He wasn't.

He wasn't knocked out at all. Do you get that? I'm going to tell you about it, and you are going to listen. I didn't lie to you. Do you get that? I didn't lie to you. I was a fool, and they fooled me,

and you along with me. You thought you saw a, knocked out. Yet the blow eye-struck was not heavy enough. It didn't hit him in the right place either. He made believe it did. He faked that knockout. He paused and looked at her expectantly, and somehow, with a leap and thrill, she knew that she believed him, and she felt pervaded by a warm happiness at the reinstatement of this man who meant nothing to her and whom she had seen but twice in her life. Well, he demanded, and she thrilled anew at the compellingness of him.

She stood up, and her hand went out to his. I believe you, she said, and I am glad, most glad. It was a longer grip than she had anticipated. He looked at her with eyes that burned, and to which her own unconsciously answered back. Never was there such a man, was her thought. Her eyes dropped first, and his followed, so that, as before, both gazed at the clasped hands. He made a movement of his whole body toward her,

impulsive and involuntary, as if to gather her to him, then checked himself abruptly with an unmistakable effort. She saw it, and felt, felt the pull of his hand as it started to draw her to him, and, to her amazement, she felt the desire to yield, the desire almost overwhelmingly, to be drawn into the strong circle of those arms. And had he compelled, she knew that she would not have refrained. She was almost dizzy, when he checked himself, and, with a closing of his fingers that have

crushed hers, dropped her hand, almost flung it from him. God, he breathed, you are made for me. He turned partly away from her, sweeping his hand to his forehead. She knew she would hate him forever if he dared one stammered word of apology or explanation, but he seemed to have the way always of doing the right thing where she was concerned. She sank into her chair. and he into another, first drawing it around so as to face her across the corner of the desk.

I spent last night in a Turkish bath, he said. I sent for an old broken-down bruiser. He was a friend of my father in the old days. I knew there couldn't be a thing about the ring he didn't know, and I made him talk. The funny thing was that it was all I could do to convince him that I didn't know the things I asked him about. He called me the babe in the woods. I guess he was right. I was raised in the woods. And woods is about all I know.

Well, I received an education from that old man last night. The ring is rottener than you told me. It seems everybody connected with it is crooked. The very supervisors that grant the fight permits graft off of the promoters. And the promoters, managers and fighters, graft off of each other and off the public. It's down to a system in one way,

and on the other hand, they're always. Do you know what the double cross is? She nodded. Well, they don't seem to miss a chance to give each other the double cross. The stuff that old man told me took my breath away, and here I have been in the thick of it for several years and knew nothing of it. I was a real babe in the woods.

And yet I can see how I've been fooled. I was so made that nobody could stop me. I was bound to win. And thanks to Stubner, everything crooked was kept away from me. This morning I cornered Spider Walsh and made him talk. He was my first trainer, you know, and he followed Stubner's instructions. They kept me in ignorance. Besides, I didn't heard with the sporting crowd.

I spent my time hunting and fishing and monkeying with cameras and such things. Do you know what Walsh and Stubner called me between themselves? The Virgin. I only learned it this morning from Walsh, and it was like pulling teeth. And they were right. I was a little innocent lamb. And Stubner was using me for crookedness, too. Only I didn't know it.

I can look back now and see how it was worked. But you see, I see, I wasn't interested enough in the game to be suspicious. I was born with a good body and a cool head, and I was raised in the open, and I was taught by my father, who knew more about fighting than any man living or dead. It was too easy.

The ring didn't absorb me. There was never any doubt of the outcome, but I'm done with it now. She pointed to the headline announcing his match with Tom Conom. That's stupid. Doobner's work, he explained. It was programmed months ago. But I don't care, I'm heading for the mountains. I've quit. She glanced at the unfinished interview on the desk and sighed. How lordly men are, she said. Masters of destiny, they do as they please. From what I've heard,

he interrupted, you've done pretty much as you please. It's one of the things I like about you, and what has struck me hard from the first was the way you and I understand each other. He broke off and looked at her with burning eyes. Well, the ring did one thing for me, he went on. It made me acquainted with you. And when you find the one woman, there's just one thing to do. Take her in your two hands and don't let go. Come on, let us start for the mountains. it had come with the suddenness of a thunder-clap, and yet she felt that she had been expecting it. Her heart was beating up and almost choking her in a strangely delicious way.

Here, at least, was the primitive and the simple, with a vengeance. Then, too, it seemed a dream. Such things did not take place in modern newspaper offices. Love could not be made in such fashion. it only so occurred on the stage and in novels. He had arisen and was holding out both hands to her. I don't dare, she said in a whisper half to herself, I don't dare.

And thereat she was stung by the quick contempt that flashed in his eyes, but that swiftly changed to open incredulity. You dare anything you wanted, he was saying, I know that. It's not a case of dare, but of want. Do you want? She had arisen, and was now swaying as if in a dream. It flashed into her mind to wonder if it were hypnotism. She wanted to glance about her at the familiar objects of the room in order to identify herself with reality, but she could not take her eyes from his, nor did she speak. He had stepped beside her. His hand was on her arm, and she leaned toward him involuntarily.

It was all part of the dream, and it was no longer hers to question anything. It was the great dare. He was right. She could dare what she wanted, and she did want. He was helping her into her jacket. She was thrusting the hatpins through her hair, and even as she really really, it, she found herself walking beside him through the opened door. The flight of the Duchess, and the statue in the bust, darted through her mind. Then she remembered Waring. What's become of Waring? she murmured. Van travel or sea-faring, he murmured back.

And to her this kindred sufficient note was a vindication of her madness. At the entrance of the building, he raised his hand to call a taxi, but was stopped by her touch on his arm. Where are we going? She breathed. To the ferry. We've just time to catch that Sacramento train. But I can't go this way, she protested. I haven't even a change of handkerchiefs.

He held up his hand again before replying. You can shop in Sacramento. We'll get married there and catch the night overland north. I'll arrange everything by telegraph from the train. As the cab drew to the curb, she looked quickly about her at the familiar street and the familiar throng, then, with almost a flurry of alarm, into Glendon's face. I don't know a thing about you, she said.

We know everything about each other, was his answer. She felt the support and urge of his arms and lifted her foot to the step. The next moment the door had closed, he was beside her, and the cab was heading down Market Street. He passed his arm around her, drew her close, and kissed her. When next she glimpsed his face, she was certain that it was dyed with a faint blush. I've heard there was an art in kissing. he stammered. I don't know anything about it myself, but I'll learn.

You see, you're the first woman I ever kissed. Chapter 9 Where a jagged peak of rock thrust above the vast virgin forest reclined a man and a woman. Beneath them, on the edge of the trees, were tethered two horses. Behind each saddle wore a pair of small saddlebags. The trees were monotonously huge, towering hundreds of feet into the air. They ran from eight to ten and twelve feet in diameter.

Many were much larger. All morning they had toiled up the divide through this unbroken forest, and this peak of rock had been the first spot where they could get out of the forest in order to see the forest. Beneath them and away, far as they could see, they range upon range of haze and purpled mountains. There was no end to these ranges. They rose, one behind another, to the dim, distant skyline,

where they faded away with a vague promise of unending extension beyond. There were no clearings in the forest. North, south, east, and west, untouched, unbroken, it covered the land with its mighty growth. They lay, feasting their eyes on the sight, her hand clasped in one of his, for this was their honeymoon, and these were the redwoods of Mendocino. Across from Shasta they had come, with horses and saddlebags, and down through the wilds of the coast counties, and they had no plan except to continue until some other plan entered their heads. They were roughly dressed, she in travel-stained khaki, he in overalls and woolen shirt.

The ladder was open at the sunburned neck, and in his hugeness he seemed a fit dweller among the forest giants, while for her, as a dweller with him, there were no signs of aught else but happiness. Well, big man, she said propping herself up on an elbow to get. gaze at him. It is more wonderful than you promised, and we are going through it together. And there's a lot of the rest of the world will go through together, he answered, shifting his position so as to get her hand in both of his. But not till we finished with this, she urged. I seem never to grow tired of the big woods, and of you. He slid effortlessly into a sitting posture and gathered her, into his arms.

Oh, you love her, she whispered, and I had given up hope of finding such a one. And I never hoped at all. I must just have known all the time that I was going to find you. Glad? Her answer was a soft pressure where her hand rested on his neck, and for long minutes they looked out over the great woods and dreamed. You remember I told you how I ran away from the red-haired school teacher? That was the first time I saw this country. I was on foot, but 40 or 50 miles a day was play for me. I was a regular Indian. I wasn't thinking about you then. Game was pretty scarce in the redwoods, but there was plenty of fine trout. That was when I camped on these rocks. I didn't dream that someday I'd be back with you. You! And be a chance. And be a

champion of the ring, too, she suggested. No, I didn't think about that at all. Dad had always told me that I was going to be, and I took it for granted. You see, he was very wise. He was a great man. But he didn't see you leaving the ring. I don't know. He was so careful in hiding its crookedness from me that I think he feared it.

I've told you about the contract with Stubner. Dad put in that clause about it. about crookedness, the first crooked thing my manager did was to break the contract. And yet you were going to fight this Tom Kahnom? Is it worthwhile? He looked at her quickly. Don't you want me to? Dear lover, I want you to do whatever you want. So she said, and to herself, her words still ringing in her ears, she marveled that she, not least among the stubbornly independent of the breed of Sangster should utter them. Yet she knew they were true, and she was glad. It will be fun, he said. But I don't understand all the gleeful details.

I haven't worked them out yet. You might help me. In the first place I'm going to double cross Stubner and the betting syndicate. It will be part of the joke. I'm going to put Kahnem out in the first round. For the first time I shall be really angry when I fight. Poor Tom Kahnom, who's as crooked as the rest, will be the chief sacrifice. You see, I intend to make a speech in the ring. It's unusual, but it will be a success, for I am going to tell the audience all the inside workings of the game. It's a good game, too, but they're running it on business principles, and that's what spoils it. But there, I'm giving the speech to you instead of at the ring.

I wish I could be there to hear, she said. He looked at her and debated. I'd like to have you, but it's sure to be a rough time. There is no telling what may happen when I start my program, but I'll come straight to you as soon as it's over, and it will be the last appearance of young Lendon in the ring, in any ring. But, dear, you've never made a speech in your life, she objected.

You might fail. He shook his head positively. I'm Irish, he announced. And what Irish man was there who couldn't speak? He paused to laugh merrily. Stubner thinks I'm crazy, says a man can't train on matrimony. A lot he knows about matrimony, or me, or you, or anything except real estate and fixed flights. But I'll show him that night. and poor Tom too. I really feel sorry for Tom. My dear abysmal brute is going to behave most abysmally and brutally, I fear, she murmured. He laughed. I'm going to make a noble attempt at it. Positively, my last appearance, you know,

and then it will be you, you. But if you don't want that last appearance, say the word. Of course I want it, big man. I want my big man for himself, and to be himself, he must be himself. If you want this, I wanted for you, and for myself, too. Suppose I said I wanted to go on the stage, or to the South Seas, or to the North Pole. He answered slowly, almost solemnly. Then I'd say go ahead, because you are you, and must be yourself, and do whatever you want.

I love you, because you are you. And we're both a silly pair of lovers, she said, when his embrace had relaxed. Isn't it great, he cried. He stood up, measured the sun with his eye, and extended his hand out over the big woods that covered the serried purple ranges. We've got to sleep out there somewhere.

It's 30 miles to the sun. the nearest camp. End of chapters 8 and 9. Chapter 10 of The Abysmal Brute by Jack London. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 10. Who, of all the sports present, will ever forget the memorable night at the Golden Gate Arena, when young Glendon put Tom Conom to sleep, and at a

an even greater one than Tom Conom, kept the audience on the ragged edge of riot for an hour, caused the subsequent graft investigation of the supervisors and the indictments of the contractors and the building commissioners, and pretty generally disrupted the whole fight game. It was a complete surprise. Not even Stubner had the slightest apprehension of what was coming. It was true that his man had been insubordinate after the Nat Powers affair and had run off and got married, but all that was over. Young Pat had done the expected, swallowed the inevitable crookedness of the ring, and come back into it again. The Golden Gate Arena was new. This was its first fight, and it was the biggest building of the kind San Francisco had ever erected.

It seated 25,000, and every seat was occupied. Sports had traveled from all the world to be present, and they had paid $50 for their ringside seats. The cheapest seat in the house had sold for $5. The old familiar roar of applause went up, when Billy Morgan, the veteran-in-lawed-lawed. announcer climbed through the ropes and bared his gray head. As he opened his mouth to speak, a heavy crash came from a near section where several tears of low seats had collapsed.

The crowd broke into loud laughter and shouted jocular regrets and advice to the victims, none of whom had been hurt. The crash of the seats and the hilarious uproar caused the captain of police in charge to look at one of his lieutenants and lift his brows in token that they would have their hands full and a lively night. One by one, welcome by uproarious applause, seven doughty old ring heroes climbed through the ropes to be introduced. They were all ex-heavyweight champions of the world. Billy Morgan accompanied each presentation to the audience with an appropriate phrase. One was hailed as

Honest John and Old Reliable. Another was the squarest two-fisted fighter the ring ever saw, and of others, the hero of a hundred battles, and never threw one and never lay down. The gamest of the old guard,

the only one who ever came back, the greatest warrior of them all, and the hardest nut in the ring to crack. All this took time. A speech was insisted on from each of them, and they mumbled and muttered in reply with proud blushes and awkward shamblings. The longest speech was from old reliable and lasted nearly a minute. Then they had to be photographed. The ring filled up with celebrities, with champion wrestlers, famous conditioners, and veteran timekeepers and referees. Lightweights and middleweights swarmed. Everybody seemed to be challenging everybody. Nat Powers was there,

demanding a return match from young Glendon, and so were all the other shining lights whom Glendon had snuffed out. Also, they all challenged Jim Hanford, who, in turn, had to make his statement, which was to the effect that he would accord the next fight to the winner of the one that was about, to take place. The audience immediately proceeded to name the winner, half of it wildly crying Glendon and the other half powers. In the midst of the pandemonium, another tier of seats went down and half a dozen rows were on between cheated ticket holders and the stewards who had been reaping a fat harvest. The captain dispatched a message to headquarters for additional police details. The crowd was feeling good.

When Conom and Glendon made their ring entrances, the arena resembled a national political convention. Each was cheered for a solid five minutes. The ring was now cleared. Glendon sat in his corner, surrounded by his seconds. As usual, Stubner was at his back. Canom was introduced first, and after he had scraped and ducked his head,

he was compelled to respond to cries for a speech. He stammered and halted, but managed to grind out several ideas. I'm proud to be here tonight, he said, and found space to capture another thought while the applause was thundering. I've fought square, I've fought square all my life. Nobody can deny that, and I'm going to do my best tonight. There were loud cries of, That's right, Tom. We know that. Good boy, Tom. You're the boy to fetch the bacon home.

Then came Glendon's turn. From him, likewise, a speech was demanded, though for principles to give speeches was an unprecedented thing in the prize ring. Billy Morgan held up his hand for silence, and in a clear, powerful voice, Glendon began. "'Everybody has told you they were proud to be here tonight,' he said. "'I am not.' The audience was startled, and he paused long enough to let it sink home. "'I am not proud of my company. "'You wanted a speech? I'll give you a real one. "'This is my last fight.

"'After tonight, I leave the ring for good. "'Why?' "'I have already told you. I don't like my company. The prize ring is so crooked that no man engaged in it can hide behind a corkscrew. It is rotten to the core, from the little professional clubs, right up to this affair tonight. The low rumble of astonishment that had been rising at this point burst into a roar. There were loud booze and hisses, and many began crying,

Go on with the fight, we want the fight. Why don't you fight? Glendon, waiting, noted that the principal disturbers near the ring were promoters and managers and fighters. In vain did he strive to make himself heard. The audience was divided. Half crying out, fight! And the other half, speech, speech! Ten minutes of hopeless madness prevailed.

Stubner, the referee, the owner of the arena, and the promoter of the fight, pleaded with Glendon to go on with the fight. When he refused, the referee declared that he would award the fight and forfeit to Canom if Glendon did not fight. You can't do it, the latter retorted. I'll sue you in all the courts if you try that on, and I'll not promise you that you'll survive this crowd if you cheated out of a fight. Besides, I'm going to fight, but before I do, I'm going to finish my speech. But it's against the rules, protested the referee. It's nothing of the sort.

There's not a word in the rules against ringside speeches. Every big fighter here tonight has made a speech. Only a few words, shouted the promoter in Glendon's ear, but you're given a lecture. There's nothing in the rules against lectures, Glendon answered, and now you fellows get out of the ring or I'll throw you out. The promoter, apoplectic and struggling, was dropped over the ropes by his coat-collar.

He was a large man, but so easily had Glendon done it with one hand that the audience went wild with delight. The cries for a speech increased in volume. Stubner and the owner beat a wise retreat. Glendon held up his hand to be heard, whereupon those that shouted for the fight, redoubled their efforts. Two or three tiers of seats crashed down, and numbers who had thus lost their places added to the turmoil

by making a concerted rush to squeeze in on the still-in-tact seats, while those behind, blocked from sight of the ring, yelled and raved for them to sit down. Glendon walked to the ropes and spoke to the police captain. He was compelled to bend over and shout in his ear, If I don't give this speech, he said, This crowd will wreck the place. If they break loose, you can never hold them, you know that.

Now you've got to help. You keep the ring clear, and I'll silence the crowd. He went back to the center of the ring and again held up his hands. You want that speech? He shouted in a tremendous voice. Hundreds near the ring heard him and cried, Yes. Then let every man who wants to hear

Shut up the noisemaker next to him. The advice was taken, so that when he repeated it, his voice penetrated farther. Again and again he shouted it, and slowly, zone by zone, the silence pressed outward from the ring, accompanied by a muffled undertone of smacks and thuds and scuffles,

as the obstreperous were subdued by their neighbors. almost had all confusion been smothered when a tear of seats near the ring went down this was greeted by fresh roars of laughter which of itself died away so that a lone voice far back was heard distinctly as it piped go on glendon we're with you glendon had the celts intuitive knowledge of the psychology of the crowd he knew that what had been a vast disorderly mob five minutes before, was now tightly in hand. And for added effect, he deliberately delayed. Yet the delay was just long enough, and not a second too long. For 30 seconds the silence was complete, and the effect produced was one of awe. Then, just as the first faint hints of restlessness came to his ears, he began to speak. When I finish this speech, he said, I am going to fight. I promise you it will be a real fight,

one of the few real fights you have ever seen. I am going to get my man in the shortest possible time. Billy Morgan, in making his final announcement, will tell you that it is to be a 45-round contest. Let me tell you that it will be nearer 45 seconds. When I was interrupted, I was telling you that the ring was rotten. It is, from top to bottom. It is run on business principles. And you all know what business principles are. Enough said.

You are the suckers. Every last one of you that is not making anything out of it. Why are the seats falling down tonight? Graffed. Like the fight game, they were built on business principles. He now held the audience stronger than ever and knew it. There are three men squeezed on two seats. I can see that everywhere.

What does it mean? Graft. The stewards don't get any wages. They are supposed to graft. Business principles again. You pay. Of course you pay. How are the fight permits obtained?

Graft. And now let me ask you, If the men who build the seats graft, if the stewards graft, if the authorities graft, why shouldn't those higher up in the fight game graft? They do, and you pay. And let me tell you it is not the fault of the fighters. They don't run the game. The promoters and managers run it.

They're the businessmen. The fighters are only fighters. They begin honestly enough, but the managers and promoters, make them give in or kick them out. There have been straight fighters, and there are now a few, but they don't earn much as a rule. I guess there have been straight managers. Mine is about the best of the boiling, but just ask him how much he's got salted down in real estate and apartment houses. Here the uproar began to drown his voice. Let every man who wants to hear shut up the man alongside of him,

Glinton instructed. Again, like the murmur of a surf, there was a rustling of smacks and thuds and scuffles, and the house quieted down. Why does every fighter work overtime, insisting that he's always fought square? Why are they called honest Johns, and honest bills, and honest blacksmiths,

and all the rest? Doesn't it ever strike you that they seem to be afraid of something? something? When a man comes to you shouting, he is honest, you get suspicious. But when a prize fighter passes the same dope out to you, you swallow it down. May the best man win. How often have you heard Billy Morgan say that? Let me tell you that the best man doesn't win so often. And when he does, it's usually arranged for him. Most of the grudge fights you've heard or seen were arranged too. It's a program. The whole thing is programmed. Do you think the promoters and

managers are in it for their health? They're not. They're businessmen. Tom, Dick, and Harry are three fighters. Dick is the best man. In two fights he could prove it. But what happens? Tom licks Harry. Dick licks Tom. Harry licks Dick. Nothing proved. Then come the return matches. Harry. Harry. Harry. Harry. Licks Tom. Tom licks Dick licks Harry. Nothing proved. Then they try again. Dick is kicking. Says he wants to get along in the game. So Dick licks Tom and Dick Licks Harry. Eight fights to prove Dick the best man when two could have done it. All arranged. A regular program. And you pay for it. And when your seats don't break down, you get robbed of them by the stewards. It is a good game, too, if it were only square.

The fighters would be square if they had a chance. But the graft is too big. When a handful of men can divide up three-quarters of a million dollars on three fights, a wild outburst compelled him to stop. Out of the medley of cries from all over the house, he could distinguish such as, What million dollars? What three fights?

Tell us, go on. Likewise, there were a lot of times. booze and hisses in cries of muckraker, muckraker. Do you want to hear? Glendon shouted. Then keep order. Once more, he compelled the impressive half-minute of silence. What is Jim Hanford planning? What is the program his crowd and mine are framing up? They know I've got him. He knows I've got him. I can whip him in one fight, but he's the champion of the world. If I don't get him, he's the game.

give in to the program, they'll never give me a chance to fight them. The program calls for three fights. I am to win the first fight. It will be pulled off in Nevada if San Francisco won't stand for it. We are to make it a good fight. To make it good, each of us will put up a sidebed of $20,000. It will be real money, but it won't be a real bet. Each gets his own slipped back to him. The same way with the purse. We'll divide it. it evenly, though the public division will be 35 and 65. The purse, the moving picture royalties, the advertisements, and all the rest of the drags won't be a cent less than 250,000. We'll divide it, and go to work on the return match. Hanford will win that, and we divide again. Then comes the third

fight. I win, as I have every right to, and we have taken three quarters of a million out of the pockets of the fighting public. That's the program, but the money is dirty, and that's why I am quitting the ring tonight. It was at this moment that Jim Hanford, kicking a clinging policeman back among the seat holders, heaved his huge frame through the ropes, bellowing, it's a lie! He rushed, like an infuriated bull at Glendon, who sprang back, and then, instead of meeting the rush, ducked cleanly away. Unable to check himself, the big man fetched up against the ropes. Flung back by the spring of them, he was turning to make another rush when Glendon landed him. Glendon, cool, clear-seeing, distanced his man perfectly to the jaw, and struck the first full-strength blow of his career.

all his strength and his reserve of strength went into that one smashing muscular explosion. Hanford was dead in the air, insofar as unconsciousness may resemble death. So far as he was concerned, he ceased at the moment of contact with Glendon's fist. His feet left the floor and he was in the air until he struck the topmost rope. His inert body sprawled across it, sagged at the middle, and fell through the ropes, and down out of the ring, upon the heads of the men in the press seats.

The audience broke loose. It had already seen more than it had paid to see, for the great Jim Hanford, the world champion, had been knocked out. It was unofficial, but it had been with a single punch. Never had there been such a non-offer. in Fistiana. Glendon looked ruefully at his damaged knuckles, cast a glance through the ropes to where Hanford was grogly coming to, and held up his hands. He had clinched his right to be heard,

and the audience grew still. When I began to fight, he said, they called me one-punch Glendon. You saw that punch a moment ago. I always had that punch. I went after. I went after. I was my men and got them on the jump, though I was careful not to hit with all my might. Then I was educated. My manager told me it wasn't fair to the crowd. He advised me to make long fights, so that the crowd could get a run for its money. I was a fool, a mutt. I was a green lad from the mountains. So help me God, I swallowed it as the truth. My manager used to talk over with me what round I would put my man out in. Then he tipped it off to the betting syndicate, and the betting syndicate went to it. Of course you paid. But I am glad for one thing. I never

touched a cent of the money. They didn't dare offer it to me, because they knew it would give the game away. You remember my fight with Nat Powers? I never knocked him out. I had got suspicious. So the gang framed it up with him. I didn't know. I intended to let him go a couple of rounds over the 16th. That last punch in the 16th didn't shake him, but he faked the knockout, just the same, and fooled all of you. How about tonight?

A voice called out. Is it a frame up? It is, was Glendon's answer. How's the syndicate betting that Kahn will last to the 14th? Howls and Hoots went up. For the last time, Glendon held up his hand for silence. I'm almost done now, but I want to tell you one thing. The syndicate gets landed tonight.

This is to be a square fight. Tom Kahnom won't last till the 14th round. He won't last the first round. Kahnom sprang to his feet in his corner and cried out in a fury, You can't do that. The man don't live who can get me in one round. Glendon ignored him and went on. Once now in my life I have struck with all my strength.

You saw that a moment ago when I caught Hanford. Tonight, for the second time, I am going to hit with all my strength. That is, if Kahnam doesn't jump through the ropes right now and get away. And now I'm ready. He went to his corner, and held out his hands for his gloves. In the opposite corner, Kahnom raged, while his seconds tried vainly to calm him. At last,

Billy Morgan managed to make the final announcement. This will be a 45-round contest, he shouted. Marquess of Queensberry rolls, and may the best man win. Let her go. The gong struck. The two men, men advanced. Glendon's right hand was extended for the customary shake, but Kahnam, with an angry toss of the head, refused to take it. To the general surprise, he did not rush. Angry though he was, he fought carefully, his touched pride impelling him to bend every effort to last out the round. Several times he struck, but he struck cautiously, never relaxing his

defense. Glendon hunted him about the ring, ever advancing with the remorseless tap-tap of his left foot. Yet he struck no blows, nor attempted to strike. He even dropped his hands to his sides, and hunted the other defenselessly in an effort to draw him out. Kahnam grinned defiantly, but declined to take advantage of the proffered opening. Two minutes passed, and then a chance change came over Glendon, by every muscle, by every line of his face. He advertised that the moment had come for him to get his man. Acting it was, and it was well acted. He seemed to have become a thing of steel, as hard and pitiless as steel. The effect was apparent on Kahnam, who redoubled his caution. Glendon quickly worked him into a way.

a corner and herded and held him there. Still, he struck no blow, nor attempted to strike, and the suspense on Kahnom's part grew painful. In vain he tried to work out of the corner, while he could not summon resolution to rush upon his opponent in an attempt to gain the respite of a clinch. Then it came, a swift series of simple faints that were muscle flashes, Kahnom was dazzled, so was the audience. No two of the onlookers could agree afterward as to what took place. Kahnom ducked one faint, and at the same time threw up his faceguard to meet another feint for his jaw.

He also attempted to change position with his legs. Ringside witnesses swore that they saw Glendon start to blow from his right hip and leap forward like a tiger to add the way to the way to. of his body to it. Be that as it may, the blow caught Kahnarm on the point of the chin at the moment of his shift of position, and like Hanford, he was unconscious in the air before he struck the ropes and fell through on the heads of the reporters. Of what happened afterward that night in the Golden Gate Arena, columns in the newspapers were unable adequately to describe. The police can't.

kept the ring clear, but they could not save the arena. It was not a riot. It was an orgy. Not a seat was left standing. All over the Great Hall, by main strength, crowding and jostling to lay hands on beams and boards. The crowd uprooted and overturned. Prize fighters sought protection of the police, but there were not enough police to escort them out, and fighters, managers and promoters were beaten and battered. Jim Hanford alone was spared. His jaw, prodigiously swollen, earned him this mercy. Outside, when finally driven from the building, the crowd fell upon a new $7,000 motor car belonging to a well-known flight promoter and reduced it to scrap iron and kindling wood. Glendon, unable to dress amid the wreckage of dressing rooms, gained his automobile, still in his

ring costume, and wrapped in a bathrobe, but failed to escape. By weight of numbers, the crowd caught and held his machine. The police were too busy to rescue him, and in the end, a compromise was effected, whereby the car was permitted to proceed at a walk, escorted by five thousand cheering madmen. It was midnight when this storm swept past Union Square and down upon the St. Francis. Cries for a speech went up, and though at the hotel entrance, Linden was good-naturedly restrained from escaping. He even tried leaping out upon the heads of the enthusiasts, but his feet never touched the pavement. On heads and shoulders, clutched at,

and uplifted by every hand that could touch his body, he went back through the air to the machine. Then he gave his speech, and Maude Glendon, looking down from an upper window at her young Hercules, towering on the seat of the automobile, knew, as she always knew, that he meant it,

when he repeated that he had fought his last fight and retired from the ring forever end of chapter ten end of the abysmal brute by jack london