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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8352a0e --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #55948 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/55948) diff --git a/old/55948-8.txt b/old/55948-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index fc38d37..0000000 --- a/old/55948-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3129 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Abysmal Brute, by Jack London - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Abysmal Brute - -Author: Jack London - -Illustrator: Gordon Grant - -Release Date: November 12, 2017 [EBook #55948] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ABYSMAL BRUTE *** - - - - -Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project -Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously -made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - THE - ABYSMAL BRUTE - - BY - JACK LONDON - Author of "The Call of the Wild," - "The Sea Wolf," "Smoke Bellew," - "The Night Born," etc. - - - NEW YORK - THE CENTURY CO. - 1913 - - - - - - - - - -THE ABYSMAL BRUTE - -I - - -Sam Stubener ran through his mail carelessly and rapidly. As became a -manager of prize-fighters, he was accustomed to a various and bizarre -correspondence. Every crank, sport, near sport, and reformer seemed -to have ideas to impart to him. From dire threats against his life -to milder threats, such as pushing in the front of his face, from -rabbit-foot fetishes to lucky horse-shoes, 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 Siskiyou 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 Kal Aufman 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 two hundred and twenty - pounds fighting weight, is twenty-two 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 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 geezers. - - Talk about the hope of the white race. This is him. Come and - take a peep. When you was managing Jeffries you was crazy about - hunting. Come along and I'll give you some real hunting and - fishing that will make your moving picture winnings look like - thirty 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'm all in and likely to pass out - any time. So get a 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. - - -Stubener was puzzled. It seemed, on the face of it, a joke--the men -in the 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, in the old London Prize Ring Rules, though -his last fading battles had been put up under the incoming Marquis -of Queensbury Rules. - -What ring-follower did not know of Pat Glendon?--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 gun-fighting bad man of a referee backed by a small -syndicate of bettors. Pat Glendon had had no accidents in that fight, -but when he had knocked his man cold with a right to the jaw and a -left to the solar plexus, the referee calmly disqualified him for -fouling. Every ringside witness, every sporting expert, and the whole -sporting world, knew there had been no foul. Yet, like all fighters, -Pat Glendon had agreed to abide by the decision of the referee. Pat -abided, and accepted it as in keeping with the rest of his bad luck. - -This was Pat Glendon. What bothered Stubener was whether or not Pat -had written the letter. He carried it down town with him. 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 an' 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? An' wasn't he makin' slathers of money with them when he -sold out? Now that I'm thinkin', that was the last time I laid eyes -on him--when he sold them out. 'Twas all of twenty years and more -ago. His wife had just died. I met him headin' for the Ferry. 'Where -away, old sport?' says I. 'It's me for the woods,' says he. 'I've -quit. Good-by, Tim, me 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?" Stubener -queried. - -"One, a little baby. He was luggin' it in his arms that very day." - -"Was it a boy?" - -"How should I be knowin'?" - -It was then that Sam Stubener reached a decision, and that night found -him in a Pullman speeding toward the wilds of Northern California. - - - - - - - - - -II - - -Stubener was dropped off the overland at Deer Lick in the early -morning, and he kicked his heels for an hour before the one saloon -opened its doors. No, the saloonkeeper 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 -Stubener struck the trail. Oh, yes, Pat Glendon lived out beyond. You -took the stage at Alpine, which was forty miles and which was a -logging camp. From Alpine, on horseback, you rode up Antelope Valley -and crossed the divide to Bear Creek. Pat Glendon lived somewhere -beyond that. The people of Alpine would know. Yes, there was a young -Pat. The storekeeper had seen him. He had been in to Deer Lick two -years back. Old Pat had not put in an appearance for five years. He -bought his supplies at the store, and always paid by check, and he was -a white-haired, strange old man. That was all the storekeeper knew, -but the folks at Alpine could give him final directions. - -It looked good to Stubener. Beyond doubt there was a young Pat Glendon, -as well as an old one, living out beyond. That night the manager spent -at the logging camp of Alpine, and early the following morning he rode -a mountain cayuse up Antelope Valley. He rode over the divide and down -Bear Creek. He rode all day, through the wildest, roughest country -he had ever seen, and at sunset turned up Pinto Valley on a trail so -stiff and narrow that more than once he elected to get off and walk. - -It was eleven 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 ye'd come, Sam, me boy," said Pat, the while he limped about, -building a fire, boiling coffee, and frying a big bear-steak. "The -young un ain't home the night. We was gettin' short of meat, and he -went out about sundown to pick up a deer. But I'll say no more. Wait -till ye see him. He'll be home in the morn, and then you can try him -out. There's the gloves. But wait till ye see him. - -"As for me, I'm finished. Eighty-one come next January, an' pretty good -for an ex-bruiser. But I never wasted meself, Sam, nor kept late hours -an' burned the candle at all ends. I had a damned good candle, an' made -the most of it, as you'll grant at lookin' at me. And I've taught the -same to the young un. What do you think of a lad of twenty-two 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 travelin' light, him a carryin' -the outfit and a big buck deer belike. He's a child of the open air, -an' 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 sleepin' in houses, an' how he'll stand the tobacco smoke in the -ring. 'Tis a terrible thing, that smoke, when you're fighting hard an' -gaspin' for air. But no more, Sam, me boy. You're tired an' sure should -be sleepin'. 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 Stubener's eyes to close. - -"He can run a deer down with his own legs, that young un," he broke out -again. "'Tis the dandy trainin' for the lungs, the hunter's life. He -don't know much of else, though, he's read a few books at times an' -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 thinkin' strong I am that he believes in the -fairies and such-like. He's a nature lover if ever there was one, an' -he's afeard of cities. He's read about them, but the biggest he was -ever in was Deer Lick. He misliked the many people, and his report -was that they'd stand weedin' out. That 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 thinkin' I am, bringin' him up a -natural. It's given him wind and stamina and the strength o' wild -bulls. No city-grown man can have a look-in against him. I'm willin' to -grant that Jeffries at his best could 'a' worried the young un a bit, -but only a bit. The young un could 'a' broke him like a straw. An' -he don't look it. That's the everlasting 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 ye see him, that's all. - -"A strange liking the boy has for posies, an' little meadows, a bit of -pine with the moon beyond, windy sunsets, or the sun o' morns from the -top of old Baldy. An' he has a hankerin' for the drawin' o' pitchers -of things, an' of spouting about 'Lucifer or night' from the poetry -books he got from the red-headed school teacher. 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 livin' 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, an' damn few of -them has he seen at that. 'Twas the school teacher over at Samson's -Flat that put the poetry stuff in his head. She was clean daffy -over the young un, an' he never a-knowin'. A warm-haired girl she -was--not a mountain girl, but from down in the flat-lands--an' as -time went by she was fair desperate, an' the way she went after him -was shameless. An' what d'ye think the boy did when he tumbled to -it? He was scared as a jackrabbit. He took blankets an' ammunition -an' hiked for tall timber. Not for a month did I lay eyes on him, an' -then he sneaked in after dark and was gone in the morn. Nor would he -as much as peep at her letters. 'Burn 'em,' he said. An' burn 'em I -did. Twice she rode over on a cayuse all the way from Samson's Flat, -an' I was sorry for the young creature. She was fair hungry for the -boy, and she looked it in her face. An' at the end of three months -she gave up school an' went back to her own country, an' then it was -that the boy came home to the shack to live again. - -"Women ha' ben 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. An' they all look at -him. But when he fights, when he fights!--God! it's the old savage -Irish that flares in him, an' 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 misdoubt 'twas the wrath of me that brought the -accidents. But he's an iceberg. He's hot an' cold at the one time, -a live wire in an ice-chest." - -Stubener was dozing, when the old man's mumble aroused him. He -listened drowsily. - -"I made a man o' him, by God! I made a man o' him, with the two fists -of him, an' the upstanding legs of him, an' the straight-seein' -eyes. And I know the game in my head, an' I've kept up with the -times and the modern changes. The crouch? Sure, he knows all the -styles an' 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-fightin'? Wait till you see. Better than his out-fightin', -and he could sure 'a' sparred with Peter Jackson an' outfooted Corbett -in his best. I tell you, I've taught'm it all, to the last trick, and -he's improved on the teachin'. He's a fair genius at the game. An' -he's had plenty of husky mountain men to try out on. I gave him the -fancy work and they gave him the sloggin'. Nothing shy or delicate -about them. Roarin' bulls an' big grizzly bears, that's what they are, -when it comes to huggin' in a clinch or swingin' rough-like in the -rushes. An' he plays with 'em. Man, d'ye hear me?--he plays with them, -like you an' me would play with little puppy-dogs." - -Another time Stubener awoke, to hear the old man mumbling: - -"'Tis the funny think he don't take fightin' seriously. It's that -easy to him he thinks it play. But wait till he's tapped a swift -one. That's all, wait. An' you'll see'm throw on the juice in that -cold storage plant of his an' turn loose the prettiest scientific -wallopin' that ever you laid eyes on." - -In the shivery gray of mountain dawn, Stubener was routed from his -blankets by old Pat. - -"He's comin' up the trail now," was the hoarse whisper. "Out with -ye an' take your first peep at the biggest fightin' man the ring has -ever seen, or will 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 woolen shirt open at the throat. Coat he had none, and on his -feet, instead of brogans, were moccasins. Stubener noted that his -walk was smooth and catlike, without suggestion of his two hundred -and twenty 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 folk tale than a -twentieth-century youth. - -A thing Stubener 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 Stubener, "an' a trail that'd break your heart." - -Breakfast consisted of black coffee, sourdough bread, and an immense -quantity of bear-meat broiled over the coals. Of this the young -fellow ate ravenously, and Stubener 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 takin' you away with him and down to San Francisco." - -"I'd sooner stay here, dad," was the answer. - -Stubener 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 an' fight, me boy. That's what I've -trained you for, an' 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 Stubener felt disappointment 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 wantin' a little huntin' 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'm a taste of your quality." - -An hour later, Sam Stubener 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, an' the lungs of him. Clean, all clean, -to the last drop an' ounce of him. You're lookin' at a man, Sam, the -like of which was never seen before. Not a muscle of him bound. No -weight-lifter or Sandow exercise artist there. See the fat snakes -of muscles a-crawlin' soft an' lazy-like. Wait till you see them -flashin' like a strikin' 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 Stubener was immediately undeceived. Here was no streak of fat, -no apathy, only a lazy, good-natured play of gloves and tricks, with -a brusk 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 feint 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, -Stubener's glove got no farther than that hip. - -Stubener had roughed it with big men in his time, and, in exhibition -bouts, had creditably held his own. But there was no holding his own -here. Young Pat played with him, and in the clinches made him feel -as powerful as a baby, landing on him seemingly at will, locking -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 Stubener 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 tellin' you. He is a wiz. He knows a blow without the lookin', -when it starts an' where, the speed, an' space, an' niceness of it. An' -'tis nothing I ever showed him. 'Tis inspiration. He was so born." - -Once, in a clinch, the fight manager heeled 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. - -"An' what will you be thinkin' to happen when some of the gay an' -ugly ones tries to rough it on him?" he asked. - -"He'll kill them, sure," was Stubener'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 makin' you come to. Go for a deer-hunt with -the boy over the hills an' learn the lungs and the legs of him. Then -we'll sign up iron-clad and regular." - -Stubener was gone two days on that hunt, and he learned all and -more than old Pat had promised, and came back a very weary and -very humble man. The young fellow's innocence of the world had -been startling to the case-hardened 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 good-by at the -cabin. - -"It won't be long, Pat, boy, when I'll be readin' 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've ben tellin' ye over an' over. The boy's clean an' -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 meanin' of fake. He -knows only the bravery, an' romance an' glory of fightin', and I've -filled him up with tales of the old ring heroes, though little enough, -God knows, it's set him afire. Man, man, I'm tellin' you that I clipped -the fight columns from the newspapers to keep it 'way from him--him -a-thinkin' I was wantin' them for me scrap book. He don't know a man -ever lay down or threw 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 contract's broke of -itself. No snide division of stake-money; no secret arrangements with -the movin' pitcher men for guaranteed distance. There's slathers o' -money for the both of you. But play it square or you lose. Understand? - -"And whatever you'll be doin' 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 an' damnation, remember that. But -when you do find the one, the only one, hang on to her. She'll be -worth more than glory an' money. But first be sure, an' 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 an' -smithereens. Pat, boy, a good woman is ... a good woman. 'Tis the -first word and the last." - - - - - - - - - -III - - -Once in San Francisco, Sam Stubener'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?" - -Stubener whistled. - -"A big champion like him wouldn't look at you," was his answer. "'Go -and get a reputation,' is 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 and the -big purses. That's why Jim Hanford wouldn't consider you for a -second. There'd be nothing in it for him. Besides, he's getting -three thousand a week right now in vaudeville, with a contract for -twenty-five weeks. Do you think he'd chuck that for a go with a -man no one ever heard of? You've got to do something first, make a -record. You've got to begin on the little local dubs that nobody ever -heard of--guys like Chub Collins, Rough-House Kelly, and the Flying -Dutchman. When you've put them away, you're only started on the first -round of the ladder. 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." - -Stubener laughed. - -"What's wrong? Don't you think I can put them away?" - -"I know you can," Stubener 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. - -Stubener was about to reply, but checked himself. Strange as was -this championship material, he felt confident that when the top was -reached it would prove very similar to that of all the others who -had gone before. Besides, two years was a long way off, and there -was much to be done in the meantime. - -When Pat fell to moping around his quarters, reading endless poetry -books and novels drawn from the public library, Stubener sent him off -to live on a Contra Costa ranch across the Bay, under the watchful eye -of Spider Walsh. At the end of a week Spider whispered that the job -was a cinch. His charge was away and over the hills from dawn till -dark, whipping the streams for trout, shooting quail and rabbits, -and pursuing the one lone and crafty buck famous for having survived -a decade of hunters. It was the Spider who waxed lazy and fat, while -his charge kept himself in condition. - -As Stubener expected, his unknown was laughed at by the fight club -managers. Were not the woods full of unknowns who were always breaking -out with championship rashes? A preliminary, say of four rounds--yes, -they would grant him that. But the main event--never. Stubener 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 fifteen rounds with Rough-House Kelly for a purse of one -hundred dollars. It was the custom of young fighters to assume the -names of old ring heroes, so no one suspected that he was the son of -the great Pat Glendon, while Stubener held his peace. It was a good -press surprise package to spring later. - -Came the night of the fight, after a month of waiting. Stubener'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," Stubener said, slapping him on the shoulder. "The -first time in the ring is always strange, and Kelly has a way -of letting his opponent wait for him on the chance of getting -stage-fright." - -"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 tobacco 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 Rough-House Kelly crawled through the ropes his greeting was -uproarious. He did not belie his name. He was a ferocious-looking -man, black and hairy, with huge, knotty muscles, weighing a full two -hundred pounds. Pat looked across at him curiously, and received a -savage scowl. After both had been introduced to the audience, they -shook hands. And even as their gloves gripped, Kelly ground his teeth, -convulsed his face with an expression of rage, and muttered: - -"You've got yer nerve wid yeh." He flung Pat's hand roughly from his, -and hissed, "I'll eat yeh up, ye pup!" - -The audience laughed at the action, and it guessed hilariously at -what Kelly must have said. - -Back in his corner, and waiting the gong, Pat turned to Stubener. - -"Why is he angry with me?" he asked. - -"He ain't," Stubener answered. "That's his way, trying to scare -you. It's just mouth-fighting." - -"It isn't boxing," was Pat's comment; and Stubener, 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 wild fury. Pat, who in his easy way had advanced only a couple of -paces, gauged the other's momentum, side-stepped, 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 seconds. - -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?" - - - - - - - - - -IV - - -As a result of his fight with Kelly, though the general opinion was -that he had won by a fluke, Pat was matched with Rufe Mason. This took -place three weeks later, and the Sierra Club audience at Dreamland -Rink failed to see what happened. Rufe Mason 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. Rufe Mason made a feint -with his right. It was obviously not a real feint, but a feeler, -a mere tentative threatening of a possible blow. It was at this -instant that Pat loosed his punch. So close together were they that -the distance the blow traveled was a scant eight inches. It was a -short-arm left jolt, and it was 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 Rufe 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 Rufe 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 Rough-House Kelly thought the -roof hit him." - -After Chub Collins had been put out in the twelfth second of the -first round of a fifteen-round contest, Stubener 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 Stubener 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 a 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 that, 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 Rough-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 Sosso, -a Portuguese fighter from Butchertown, 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 back 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," Stubener 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 Sosso 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. Sosso's whirlwind attacks, wild feints, -retreats, and rushes, required all Pat's science to protect himself, -and even then he did not escape unscathed. - -Stubener praised him in the minute-rests, and all would have been well, -had not Sosso, in the fourth round, played one of his most spectacular -tricks. Pat, in a mix-up, had landed a hook to Sosso'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 grogginess. Pat -could not understand. It had not been a knock-out 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. Sosso 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. Still reeling, Sosso 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 hear. He -saw only Sosso 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 feint 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 Sosso's mouth ere his falling body -struck the floor. The club doctors worked half an hour to bring him -to. After that they put eleven 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 Stubener 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 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 blarneying 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," Stubener repeated musingly. - -Pat nodded, and Stubener, 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 bout will be with the Flying Dutchman. Suppose you -let it run the full fifteen and put him 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," Stubener 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 school -teacher who scared him off into the woods. - - - - - - - - - -V - - -"Where are you going?" Stubener demanded in surprise, looking at -his watch. - -Pat, with his hand on the door-knob, 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 to-night, 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 to-night." - -"I know it. But I won't enter the ring a moment before half past nine -or quarter to ten. The lecture will be over at nine fifteen. If you -want to make sure, come around and pick me up in your machine." - -Stubener 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 fifteen splendid -rounds, Stubener 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 an unwonted -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 out-fighting his arms whirled about like flails, -in the in-fighting he was forever shouldering or half-wrestling and -starting blows whenever he could get a hand free. From start to finish -he was a whirlwind, hence his name. His failing was 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 fusillades 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?" Stubener 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 yet been knocked out by any one," Stubener 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 land it something's got to go. If -he won't, my knuckles will." - -"Do you think you could get him now?" Stubener asked at the end of -the thirteenth round. - -"Anytime, I tell you." - -"Well, then, Pat, let him run to the fifteenth." - -In the fourteenth 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 feint 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 on either side his face, or both elbows and forearms guarded -his mid-section; 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?" Stubener 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 the fraction of a second they faced each other -in position. Then the Flying Dutchman leaped forward upon his man, -and Pat, with a timed right-cross, dropped him cold as he leaped. - -It was after this battle that Pat Glendon started on his upward rush -to fame. The sports and the sporting writers 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 he was, he would go far. The time -was already past, the writers asserted, for him to waste himself on the -third-raters and chopping blocks. Where were Ben Menzies, Rege Rede, -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 Stubener 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, fought, and knocked out the four second-raters. 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 Stubener 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 half way around the world to defeat him on Boxing Day -in Australia. - -But the purses grew larger and larger. In place of a hundred dollars, -such as his first battles had earned him, he was now receiving -from twenty to thirty thousand dollars a fight, as well as equally -large sums from the moving picture men. Stubener 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. - -Stubener was attracted to real estate, and his holdings in San -Francisco, consisting of building flats and apartment houses, were -bigger than Glendon ever dreamed. There was a secret syndicate of -bettors, however, which could have made an accurate guess at the -size of Stubener's holdings, while heavy bonus after heavy bonus, -of which Glendon never heard, was paid over to his manager by the -moving picture men. - -Stubener'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 Stubener intervened between Glendon and the world. He was never -even interviewed save in Stubener'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 Stubener, who said: - -"It's only con, Pat. They were trying to josh you." He noted the blue -eyes blaze. "And maybe 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 -any more. 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 to-day. 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, Stubener 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 big were the stakes -involved, that Henderson himself was pledged not to last beyond -the fourteenth. - -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 hailed 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 Brute," 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 -Sulzberger, the gigantic German, try as he would in the eighteenth -round, he failed to get him, in the nineteenth it was the same story, -and not till the twentieth did he manage to break through the baffling -guard and drop him. Glendon's increasing enjoyment of the game was -accompanied by severer 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 Stubener noted with -secret glee was that his young fighter no longer talked of going -permanently back to his mountains when he had won the championship -away from Jim Hanford. - - - - - - - - - -VI - - -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 Cannam. And all would have been well had not a certain -society girl gone adventuring into journalism, and had not Stubener -agreed to an interview with the woman reporter of the San Francisco -"Courier-Journal." - -Her work was always published over the name of Maud Sangster, which, -by the way, was her own name. The Sangsters were a notoriously -wealthy family. The founder, old Jacob Sangster, had packed his -blankets and worked as a farm-hand 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 timber lands 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 Sangster. - -Maud Sangster was Theodore's oldest daughter. The Sangster 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 Sangster 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 ten thousand, she remained unmarried. She -had sojourned in Europe without bringing home a nobleman 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 the society weeklies agog with her unconventionalities, walked -from San Mateo 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 twenty dollars a week, her salary -had swiftly risen to fifty. Her work was principally musical, dramatic, -and art criticism, though 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 in a diver's suit, and flew with Rood, the bird man, when he -broke all records of continuous flight by reaching as far as Riverside. - -Now it must not be imagined that Maud Sangster was a hard-bitten -Amazon. On the contrary, she was a gray-eyed, slender young 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 a 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 prizefighter 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 was a man-monster, profoundly stupid and with -the sullenness 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 at the hour appointed by Stubener. - -That real estate owner was having trouble. Pat was rebellious. He sat, -one big leg dangling over the side of the arm chair and Shakespeare's -Sonnets face downward on his knee, orating 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," Stubener 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 Blingum 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 Stubener hurried on. - -"She writes poetry, too--the regular la-de-dah 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 sign 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 sort 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, marveling 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 out-rush 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 of 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 ... 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 an 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. - -Stubener 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 am 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. Stubener did most of the -talking and suggesting, which was sufficient to irritate Maud Sangster, -while Pat volunteered nothing. She studied his fine countenance, the -eyes clear blue and wide apart, the well-modeled, 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 papers 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 Stubener. - -"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 Stubener). "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 Stubener 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," Stubener interrupted. - -"But later," Pat went on, "when I encountered the better fighters, -the real big clever ones, where I was more--" - -"On your mettle?" she suggested. - -"Yes; that's it, more on my mettle, 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 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," Stubener proclaimed. "He's -won every battle by the knock-out 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. I--" - -He stopped abruptly, aware of what he was saying but unaware of why -he was saying it. - -"Yes," she cried eagerly. "That's it. That is what makes a good -interview--the real personality, you know." - -But Pat remained tongue-tied, and Stubener wandered away on a -statistical comparison of his champion's weights, measurements, and -expansions with those of Sandow, the Terrible Turk, Jeffries, and the -other modern strong men. This was of little interest to Maud Sangster, -and she showed that she was bored. Her eyes chanced to rest on the -Sonnets. She picked the book up and glanced inquiringly at Stubener. - -"That's Pat's," he said. "He goes in for that kind of stuff, and color -photography, and art exhibits, and such things. But for heaven's sake -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 Stubener 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 blond 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 the 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 -your 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," Stubener 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 rot. There's -nothing to it, Miss Sangster, 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 Maud Sangster refused to be side-tracked, and 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 nineteenth. 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 Murgweather. And -it did end in the nineteenth 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 and seconds and -rules and such things often pick the number of rounds, just as -men have been known to pick hundred-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 non-existent." - -"What is your opinion, Mr. Glendon?" she asked. - -"The same as mine," Stubener snatched the answer. "He knows what I say -is true, every word of it. He's never fought anything but a straight -fight in his life. Isn't that right, Pat?" - -"Yes; it's right," Pat affirmed, and the peculiar thing to Maud -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." - -Stubener 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," Stubener broke in. - -"I wish you would give me a chance to answer," Maud Sangster said. - -"I guess I'm able to talk with Miss Sangster," 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 Stubener, 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 sixteenth. And here was a woman, from a newspaper -office, naming the very round. - -Stubener, 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 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 sixteenth 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 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 am going -to tell you? Will you take the word of a ... prize-fighter?" - -She nodded gravely, looking him straight 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, Stubener and I have talked this fight over, and it was -understood between us that I would end the fight in the sixteenth -round. Now you bring the same word. How did that editor know? Not from -me. Stubener must have let it out ... 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 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 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 -has really been pulled over or not. You see, I am 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 -fight with Nat Powers won't end in the sixteenth round. If there is -any truth in that editor's tip, they'll all be fooled. Instead of -putting him out in the sixteenth, I'll let the fight run on into the -twenties. 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. I won't run it into -the twenties. I'll stop Nat Powers in the eighteenth." - -"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 -line 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 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 naïve and -simple frankness on his part and not a practised artfulness. - -He saw her into her machine, and gave her another thrill when he said -good-by. Once again their hands were clasped as he said: - -"Some day 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." - -And 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?" Stubener 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. - -Stubener looked up sharply. - -"I asked her not to," Glendon explained. - -Then Stubener exploded. - -"As if she'd kill a juicy thing like that." - -Glendon 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 passion-wrought hands, Stubener, who knew the strength -of them, and of the man he faced, no longer dared to doubt. - - - - - - - - - -VII - - -It did not take Stubener 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 bettors, and the -betting syndicate was not to be denied its harvest. - -On the night of the fight, Maud Sangster 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 ring-side 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, there 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 his 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 Maud Sangster found the play and feint 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 claque 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 unpractised 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's negative. 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 Glendon 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 in-fighting, 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 antagonist's -sledge-hammer 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 fifteenth 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 sixteenth round struck that -Stubener, leaning over Glendon from behind in his corner, whispered: - -"Are you going to get him now?" - -Glendon, with a 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 sixteenth 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 -above 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 -Sangster. 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' 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 Stubener 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 hold out his hands for his -seconds to pull off the gloves. - - - - - - - - - -VIII - - -That night, after receiving the editor's final dictum that there was -not a square fighter in the game, Maud Sangster 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 Cannam, -when one of the door-boys 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'm, 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'm. He's a awful big guy. If he started roughhousing he could -clean the whole office out. He's young Glendon, 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," 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. I didn't." - -She turned and looked at him with quiet affectation of boredom. - -"What is the use?" she asked. "Prize-fighting is prize-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 knew Powers wouldn't be knocked out -in the sixteenth." - -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 am -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 him -knocked out. Yet the blow I 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 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 half -crushed hers, dropped her hand, almost flung it from him. - -"God!" he breathed. "You were 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've 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 Stubener, 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 Stubener's instructions. They kept me in -ignorance. Besides, I didn't herd with the sporting crowd. I spent my -time hunting and fishing and monkeying with cameras and such things. Do -you know what Walsh and Stubener 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 Stubener 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 wasn't interested enough in the game to be suspicious. I was born -with a good body and a cool head, 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 Cannam. - -"That's Stubener'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'd 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 hat-pins through her -hair. And even as she realized it, she found herself walking beside him -through the opened door. The "Flight of the Duchess" and "The Statue -and the Bust," darted through her mind. Then she remembered "Waring." - -"'What's become of Waring?'" she murmured. - -"'Land 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 ... 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 ... 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." - - - - - - - - - -IX - - -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 were a pair of small -saddle-bags. 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, lay range upon range -of haze-empurpled 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 -saddle-bags, 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 latter 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 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 we'll go through together," -he answered, shifting his position so as to get her hand in both -of his. - -"But not till we've 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 lover," 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 -forty or fifty 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 some day I'd be back with you, YOU." - -"And be a champion of the ring, too," she suggested. - -"No; I didn't think about that at all. Dad had always told me 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 -Stubener. Dad put in that clause about crookedness. The first crooked -thing my manager did was to break the contract." - -"And yet you are going to fight this Tom Cannam. Is it worth while?" - -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 Stubener and the betting syndicate. It -will be part of the joke. I am going to put Cannam out in the -first round. For the first time I shall be really angry when I -fight. Poor Tom Cannam, 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 Glendon 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 Irishman was there who couldn't -speak?" He paused to laugh merrily. "Stubener 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 fights. 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 want it for you, -and for myself, too. Suppose I said I wanted to go on the stage, -or to the South Seas or 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 thirty miles to the -nearest camp." - - - - - - - - - -X - - -Who, of all the sports present, will ever forget the memorable night -at the Golden Gate Arena, when Young Glendon put Tom Cannam to sleep -and an even greater one than Tom Cannam, kept the great 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 Stubener 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 twenty-five thousand, and every seat was occupied. Sports had -traveled from all the world to be present, and they had paid fifty -dollars for their ring-side seats. The cheapest seat in the house -had sold for five dollars. - -The old familiar roar of applause went up when Billy Morgan, the -veteran 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 tiers 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, welcomed by uproarious applause, seven doughty old ring -heroes climbed through the ropes to be introduced. They were all -ex-heavy-weight 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 time-keepers and referees. Light-weights and middle-weights -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 despatched a message to headquarters -for additional police details. - -The crowd was feeling good. When Cannam 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, Stubener was at his -back. Cannam was introduced first, and after he had scraped and ducked -his head, he was compelled to respond to the cries for a speech. He -stammered and halted, but managed to grind out several ideas. - -"I'm proud to be here to-night," 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 to-night." - -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 principals 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 to-night," -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 -to-night 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 to-night." - -The low rumble of astonishment that had been rising at this point -burst into a roar. There were loud boos 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. Stubener, 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 in forfeit to Cannam 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 cheat it out of the 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 -ring-side speeches. Every big fighter here to-night has made a speech." - -"Only a few words," shouted the promoter in Glendon's ear. "But you're -giving 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. Stubener and the owner beat a wise -retreat. Glendon held up his hands 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 intact 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 noise-maker 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 tier of seats near the ring went down. This was -greeted with 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 Celt's 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 thirty 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 forty-five-round contest. Let me tell you that it will be -nearer forty-five 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 to-night? Graft. 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 business -men. 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!" Glendon 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? 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 business men. - -"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 licks Tom. Tom licks Dick. 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's 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 boos and hisses, and 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 give in to the program, they'll never give me a chance to -fight him. 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 side bet of twenty thousand. 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 evenly, though the public -division will be thirty-five and sixty-five. The purse, the moving -picture royalties, the advertisements, and all the rest of the drags -won't be a cent less than two hundred and fifty thousand. 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 to-night--" - -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--in so far 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 night in fistiana. Glendon looked ruefully at his -damaged knuckles, cast a glance through the ropes to where Hanford -was groggily 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 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 sixteenth. That last -punch in the sixteenth didn't shake him. But he faked the knock-out -just the same and fooled all of you." - -"How about to-night?" a voice called out. "Is it a frame-up?" - -"It is," was Glendon's answer. "How's the syndicate betting? That -Cannam will last to the fourteenth." - -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 to-night. This is to be a square fight. Tom Cannam won't -last till the fourteenth round. He won't last the first round." - -Cannam sprang to his feet in his corner and cried out in a fury: - -"You can't do it. 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. To-night, for the second time, -I am going to hit with all my strength--that is, if Cannam 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 Cannam raged while his seconds tried vainly to calm -him. At last Billy Morgan managed to make the final announcement. - -"This will be a forty-five round contest," he shouted. "Marquis of -Queensbury Rules! And may the best man win! Let her go!" - -The gong struck. The two men advanced. Glendon's right hand was -extended for the customary shake, but Cannam, 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. Cannam grinned -defiantly, but declined to take advantage of the proffered opening. - -Two minutes passed, and then a 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 Cannam, who redoubled -his caution. Glendon quickly worked him into a corner and herded and -held him there. Still he struck no blow, nor attempted to strike, -and the suspense on Cannam'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 feints that were muscle -flashes. Cannam was dazzled. So was the audience. No two of the -onlookers could agree afterward as to what took place. Cannam ducked -one feint and at the same time threw up his face guard to meet another -feint for his jaw. He also attempted to change position with his -legs. Ring-side witnesses swore that they saw Glendon start the blow -from his right hip and leap forward like a tiger to add the weight -of his body to it. Be that as it may, the blow caught Cannam 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 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 over-turned. 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 seven-thousand-dollar motor car -belonging to a well-known fight promoter and reduced it to scrapiron -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 bath robe, -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, Glendon 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 Maud -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. - - - THE END - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Abysmal Brute, by Jack London - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ABYSMAL BRUTE *** - -***** This file should be named 55948-8.txt or 55948-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/9/4/55948/ - -Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project -Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously -made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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-} -h1, h2, h3, h4, h5, h6 { -font-weight: normal; -} -table { -margin-left: auto; -margin-right: auto; -} -.tablecaption { -text-align: center; -}.pagenum, .linenum { -speak: none; -} -</style> - -<style type="text/css"> -/* CSS rules generated from @rend attributes in TEI file */ -.cover-imagewidth { -width:480px; -} -.xd26e109 { -text-align:center; -} -.frontiswidth { -width:491px; -} -.titlepage-imagewidth { -width:451px; -} -.xd26e1573 { -text-align:center; -} -.xd26e1578 { -text-align:center; font-size:large; font-weight:bold; -} -.xd26e1580 { -text-align:center; font-size:xx-large; font-weight:bold; -} -.xd26e1596 { -text-align:center; font-size:small; font-weight:bold; -} -@media handheld { -} -/* CSS rules copied from @style attributes in TEI file */ -</style> -</head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Abysmal Brute, by Jack London - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Abysmal Brute - -Author: Jack London - -Illustrator: Gordon Grant - -Release Date: November 12, 2017 [EBook #55948] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ABYSMAL BRUTE *** - - - - -Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project -Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously -made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<div class="front"> -<div class="div1 cover"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= -"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> -<div class="divBody"> -<p class="first"></p> -<div class="figure cover-imagewidth"><img src="images/new-cover.jpg" -alt="Newly Designed Front Cover." width="480" height="720"></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="div1 frenchtitle"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= -"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> -<div class="divBody"> -<p class="first xd26e109">THE<br> -ABYSMAL BRUTE</p> -</div> -</div> -<div class="div1 frontispiece"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= -"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> -<div class="divBody"> -<p class="first"></p> -<div class="figure frontiswidth"><img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" -alt="Original Frontispiece." width="491" height="720"></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="div1 titlepage"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= -"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> -<div class="divBody"> -<p class="first"></p> -<div class="figure titlepage-imagewidth"><img src= -"images/titlepage.png" alt="Original Title Page." width="451" height= -"720"></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="titlePage"> -<div class="docTitle"> -<div class="mainTitle">THE<br> -ABYSMAL BRUTE</div> -</div> -<div class="byline">BY<br> -<span class="docAuthor">JACK LONDON</span><br> -Author of “The Call of the Wild,” “The Sea -Wolf,” “Smoke Bellew,” “The Night Born,” -etc.</div> -<div class="docImprint">NEW YORK<br> -THE CENTURY CO.<br> -<span class="docDate">1913</span></div> -</div> -<div class="div1 copyright"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= -"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> -<div class="divBody"> -<p class="first xd26e109">Copyright, 1913, by<br> -<span class="sc">The Century Co.</span></p> -<p class="xd26e109">Copyright, 1911, by<br> -<span class="sc">Street & Smith</span>. New York</p> -<p class="xd26e109"><i>Published, May, 1913</i> <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb1" href="#pb1" name="pb1">1</a>]</span> -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb3" href="#pb3" name= -"pb3">3</a>]</span></p> -</div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="body"> -<div id="ch1" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= -"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> -<div class="divHead"> -<h2 class="super">THE ABYSMAL BRUTE</h2> -<h2 class="main">I</h2> -</div> -<div class="divBody"> -<p class="first">Sam Stubener ran through his mail carelessly and -rapidly. As became a manager of prize-fighters, he was accustomed to a -various and bizarre correspondence. Every crank, sport, near sport, and -reformer seemed to have ideas to impart to him. From dire threats -against his life to milder threats, such as pushing in the front of his -face, from rabbit-foot fetishes to lucky horse-shoes, 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. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb4" href="#pb4" name= -"pb4">4</a>]</span>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 Siskiyou County, -and it ran:</p> -<blockquote> -<p class="first">Dear Sam:</p> -<p>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 Kal Aufman 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. -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb5" href="#pb5" name= -"pb5">5</a>]</span></p> -<p>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 two hundred and twenty -pounds fighting weight, is twenty-two 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.</p> -<p>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 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 geezers.</p> -<p>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 and fishing that will -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb6" href="#pb6" name= -"pb6">6</a>]</span>make your moving picture winnings look like thirty -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’m all in and -likely to pass out any time. So get a 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.</p> -<p>Yours truly,</p> -<p>PAT GLENDON.</p> -</blockquote> -<p>Stubener was puzzled. It seemed, on the face of it, a joke—the -men in the 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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb7" href="#pb7" name= -"pb7">7</a>]</span>“Old” Pat, and had been out of the ring -for years. He had antedated Sullivan, in the old London Prize Ring -Rules, though his last fading battles had been put up under the -incoming Marquis of Queensbury Rules.</p> -<p>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.</p> -<p>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, <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb8" href="#pb8" name= -"pb8">8</a>]</span>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 gun-fighting bad man of a referee backed by a small syndicate of -bettors. Pat Glendon had had no accidents in that fight, but when he -had knocked his man cold with a right to the jaw and a left to the -solar plexus, the referee calmly disqualified him for fouling. Every -ringside witness, every sporting expert, and the whole sporting world, -knew there had been no foul. Yet, like all fighters, Pat Glendon had -agreed to <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb9" href="#pb9" name= -"pb9">9</a>]</span>abide by the decision of the referee. Pat abided, -and accepted it as in keeping with the rest of his bad luck.</p> -<p>This was Pat Glendon. What bothered Stubener was whether or not Pat -had written the letter. He carried it down town 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.</p> -<p>“Sure an’ 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? -An’ wasn’t he makin’ slathers of money with -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb10" href="#pb10" name= -"pb10">10</a>]</span>them when he sold out? Now that I’m -thinkin’, that was the last time I laid eyes on him—when he -sold them out. ’Twas all of twenty years and more ago. His wife -had just died. I met him headin’ for the Ferry. ‘Where -away, old sport?’ says I. ‘It’s me for the -woods,’ says he. ‘I’ve quit. Good-by, Tim, me -boy.’ And I’ve never seen him from that day to this. Of -course he ain’t dead.”</p> -<p>“You say when his wife died—did he have any -children?” Stubener queried.</p> -<p>“One, a little baby. He was luggin’ it in his arms that -very day.”</p> -<p>“Was it a boy?”</p> -<p>“How should I be knowin’?”</p> -<p>It was then that Sam Stubener reached a decision, and that night -found him in a Pullman speeding toward the wilds of Northern -California. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb11" href="#pb11" name= -"pb11">11</a>]</span></p> -</div> -</div> -<div id="ch2" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= -"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> -<div class="divHead"> -<h2 class="main">II</h2> -</div> -<div class="divBody"> -<p class="first">Stubener was dropped off the overland at Deer Lick in -the early morning, and he kicked his heels for an hour before the one -saloon opened its doors. No, the saloonkeeper 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 Stubener struck the trail. Oh, yes, Pat Glendon lived -out beyond. You took the stage at Alpine, which was forty miles and -which was a logging camp. From Alpine, on <span class="pagenum">[<a id= -"pb12" href="#pb12" name="pb12">12</a>]</span>horseback, you rode up -Antelope Valley and crossed the divide to Bear Creek. Pat Glendon lived -somewhere beyond that. The people of Alpine would know. Yes, there was -a young Pat. The storekeeper had seen him. He had been in to Deer Lick -two years back. Old Pat had not put in an appearance for five years. He -bought his supplies at the store, and always paid by check, and he was -a white-haired, strange old man. That was all the storekeeper knew, but -the folks at Alpine could give him final directions.</p> -<p>It looked good to Stubener. 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 cayuse up Antelope Valley. He rode over the -divide and down Bear Creek. He rode all day, through the wildest, -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb13" href="#pb13" name= -"pb13">13</a>]</span>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.</p> -<p>It was eleven 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.</p> -<p>“I knew ye’d come, Sam, me boy,” said Pat, the -while he limped about, building a fire, boiling coffee, and frying a -big bear-steak. “The young un ain’t home the night. We was -gettin’ short of meat, and he went out about sundown to pick up a -deer. But I’ll say no more. Wait till ye see him. He’ll be -home in the morn, and then you can try him out. There’s the -gloves. But wait till ye see him.</p> -<p>“As for me, I’m finished. Eighty-one come next January, -an’ pretty good for <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb14" href= -"#pb14" name="pb14">14</a>]</span>an ex-bruiser. But I never wasted -meself, Sam, nor kept late hours an’ burned the candle at all -ends. I had a damned good candle, an’ made the most of it, as -you’ll grant at lookin’ at me. And I’ve taught the -same to the young un. What do you think of a lad of twenty-two -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 travelin’ light, him a carryin’ the outfit and a big -buck deer belike. He’s a child of the open air, an’ 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 -sleepin’ in houses, an’ how he’ll stand the tobacco -smoke in the ring. ‘Tis a terrible thing, that smoke, when -you’re fighting hard an’ gaspin’ for air. But no -more, Sam, me boy. You’re <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb15" -href="#pb15" name="pb15">15</a>]</span>tired an’ sure should be -sleepin’. Wait till you see him, that’s all. Wait till you -see him.”</p> -<p>But the garrulousness of age was on old Pat, and it was long before -he permitted Stubener’s eyes to close.</p> -<p>“He can run a deer down with his own legs, that young -un,” he broke out again. “’Tis the dandy -trainin’ for the lungs, the hunter’s life. He don’t -know much of else, though, he’s read a few books at times -an’ 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 -thinkin’ strong I am that he believes in the fairies and -such-like. He’s a nature lover if ever there was one, an’ -he’s afeard of cities. He’s read about them, but the -biggest he was ever in was Deer Lick. He misliked the many people, and -his report was that <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb16" href="#pb16" -name="pb16">16</a>]</span>they’d stand weedin’ out. That -was two years agone—the first and the last time he’s seen a -locomotive and a train of cars.</p> -<p>“Sometimes it’s wrong I’m thinkin’ I am, -bringin’ him up a natural. It’s given him wind and stamina -and the strength o’ wild bulls. No city-grown man can have a -look-in against him. I’m willin’ to grant that Jeffries at -his best could ’a’ worried the young un a bit, but only a -bit. The young un could ’a’ broke him like a straw. -An’ he don’t look it. That’s the everlasting 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 ye see him, -that’s all.</p> -<p>“A strange liking the boy has for posies, an’ little -meadows, a bit of pine with the moon beyond, windy sunsets, or the sun -o’ morns from the top of old Baldy. An’ he has a -hankerin’ for the drawin’ o’ pitchers of things, -an’ of spouting <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb17" href="#pb17" -name="pb17">17</a>]</span>about ‘Lucifer or night’ from the -poetry books he got from the red-headed school teacher. 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 livin’ -in a city for him.</p> -<p>“A good thing; he’s woman-shy. They’ll not bother -him for years. He can’t bring himself to understand the -creatures, an’ damn few of them has he seen at that. ’Twas -the school teacher over at Samson’s Flat that put the poetry -stuff in his head. She was clean daffy over the young un, an’ he -never a-knowin’. A warm-haired girl she was—not a mountain -girl, but from down in the flat-lands—an’ as time went by -she was fair desperate, an’ the way she went after him was -shameless. An’ what d’ye think the boy did when he tumbled -to it? He was scared as a jackrabbit. He took blankets <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb18" href="#pb18" name= -"pb18">18</a>]</span>an’ ammunition an’ hiked for tall -timber. Not for a month did I lay eyes on him, an’ then he -sneaked in after dark and was gone in the morn. Nor would he as much as -peep at her letters. ‘Burn ’em,’ he said. An’ -burn ’em I did. Twice she rode over on a cayuse all the way from -Samson’s Flat, an’ I was sorry for the young creature. She -was fair hungry for the boy, and she looked it in her face. An’ -at the end of three months she gave up school an’ went back to -her own country, an’ then it was that the boy came home to the -shack to live again.</p> -<p>“Women ha’ ben 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. An’ -they all look at him. But when he fights, when he fights!—God! -it’s the old savage Irish that flares in him, an’ drives -the fists of <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb19" href="#pb19" name= -"pb19">19</a>]</span>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 misdoubt -’twas the wrath of me that brought the accidents. But he’s -an iceberg. He’s hot an’ cold at the one time, a live wire -in an ice-chest.”</p> -<p>Stubener was dozing, when the old man’s mumble aroused him. He -listened drowsily.</p> -<p>“I made a man o’ him, by God! I made a man o’ him, -with the two fists of him, an’ the upstanding legs of him, -an’ the straight-seein’ eyes. And I know the game in my -head, an’ I’ve kept up with the times and the modern -changes. The crouch? Sure, he knows all the styles an’ 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-fightin’? -Wait till you see. Better than his out-fightin’, <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb20" href="#pb20" name="pb20">20</a>]</span>and he -could sure ’a’ sparred with Peter Jackson an’ -outfooted Corbett in his best. I tell you, I’ve taught’m it -all, to the last trick, and he’s improved on the teachin’. -He’s a fair genius at the game. An’ he’s had plenty -of husky mountain men to try out on. I gave him the fancy work and they -gave him the sloggin’. Nothing shy or delicate about them. -Roarin’ bulls an’ big grizzly bears, that’s what they -are, when it comes to huggin’ in a clinch or swingin’ -rough-like in the rushes. An’ he plays with ’em. Man, -d’ye hear me?—he plays with them, like you an’ me -would play with little puppy-dogs.”</p> -<p>Another time Stubener awoke, to hear the old man mumbling:</p> -<p>“’Tis the funny think he don’t take fightin’ -seriously. It’s that easy to him he thinks it play. But wait till -he’s tapped a swift one. That’s all, wait. An’ -you’ll see’m throw on the juice in <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb21" href="#pb21" name="pb21">21</a>]</span>that -cold storage plant of his an’ turn loose the prettiest scientific -wallopin’ that ever you laid eyes on.”</p> -<p>In the shivery gray of mountain dawn, Stubener was routed from his -blankets by old Pat.</p> -<p>“He’s comin’ up the trail now,” was the -hoarse whisper. “Out with ye an’ take your first peep at -the biggest fightin’ man the ring has ever seen, or will ever see -in a thousand years again.”</p> -<p>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 -woolen shirt open at the throat. Coat he had none, and on his feet, -instead of brogans, were moccasins. Stubener noted that his walk was -smooth and catlike, <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb22" href="#pb22" -name="pb22">22</a>]</span>without suggestion of his two hundred and -twenty 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 folk tale than a twentieth-century -youth.</p> -<p>A thing Stubener 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. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb23" href="#pb23" -name="pb23">23</a>]</span></p> -<p>“South Fork,” was all he vouchsafed.</p> -<p>“Eleven miles across the mountains,” the old man -exposited pridefully to Stubener, “an’ a trail that’d -break your heart.”</p> -<p>Breakfast consisted of black coffee, sourdough bread, and an immense -quantity of bear-meat broiled over the coals. Of this the young fellow -ate ravenously, and Stubener 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.</p> -<p>“Pat, boy,” he began, “you know who the gentleman -is?”</p> -<p>Young Pat nodded, and cast a quick, comprehensive glance at the -manager.</p> -<p>“Well, he’ll be takin’ you away with him and down -to San Francisco.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb24" href= -"#pb24" name="pb24">24</a>]</span></p> -<p>“I’d sooner stay here, dad,” was the answer.</p> -<p>Stubener 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.</p> -<p>But old Pat’s Celtic wrath flared up, and his voice was harsh -with command<span class="corr" id="xd26e316" title= -"Not in source">.</span></p> -<p>“You’ll go down to the cities an’ fight, me boy. -That’s what I’ve trained you for, an’ you’ll do -it.”</p> -<p>“All right,” was the unexpected response, rumbled -apathetically from the deep chest.</p> -<p>“And fight like hell,” the old man added.</p> -<p>Again Stubener felt disappointment at the absence of flash and fire -in the young man’s eyes as he answered: <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb25" href="#pb25" name="pb25">25</a>]</span></p> -<p>“All right. When do we start?”</p> -<p>“Oh, Sam, here, he’ll be wantin’ a little -huntin’ 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’m a taste of your quality.”</p> -<p>An hour later, Sam Stubener 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.</p> -<p>“See the softness of him,” old Pat chanted. -“’Tis the true stuff. Look at the slope of the shoulders, -an’ the lungs of him. Clean, all clean, to the last drop -an’ ounce of him. You’re lookin’ at a man, Sam, the -like of which was never seen before. Not a muscle of him bound. No -weight-lifter or Sandow exercise artist there. See the fat snakes of -muscles a-crawlin’ soft an’ lazy-like. Wait till -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb26" href="#pb26" name= -"pb26">26</a>]</span>you see them flashin’ like a strikin’ -rattler. He’s good for forty rounds this blessed instant, or a -hundred. Go to it! Time!”</p> -<p>They went to it, for three-minute rounds with a minute rests, and -Sam Stubener was immediately undeceived. Here was no streak of fat, no -apathy, only a lazy, good-natured play of gloves and tricks, with a -brusk stiffness and harsh sharpness in the contacts that he knew -belonged only to the trained and instinctive fighting man.</p> -<p>“Easy, now, easy,” old Pat warned. “Sam’s -not the man he used to be.”</p> -<p>This nettled Sam, as it was intended to do, and he played his most -famous trick and favorite punch—a feint for a clinch and a right -rip to the stomach. But, quickly as it was delivered, <span class= -"corr" id="xd26e345" title="Source: Young">young</span> Pat saw it, -and, though it landed, his body was going away. The next time, his -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb27" href="#pb27" name= -"pb27">27</a>]</span>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, Stubener’s glove got no farther than that hip.</p> -<p>Stubener had roughed it with big men in his time, and, in exhibition -bouts, had creditably held his own. But there was no holding his own -here. Young Pat played with him, and in the clinches made him feel as -powerful as a baby, landing on him seemingly at will, locking 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 Stubener made another mistake. He took it for a trick of old -Pat’s training, tried to sneak in a short-arm jolt, found -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb28" href="#pb28" name= -"pb28">28</a>]</span>his arm in a lightning lock, and had both his ears -cuffed for his pains.</p> -<p>“The instinct for a blow,” the old man chortled. -“’Tis not put on, I’m tellin’ you. He is a wiz. -He knows a blow without the lookin’, when it starts an’ -where, the speed, an’ space, an’ niceness of it. An’ -’tis nothing I ever showed him. ’Tis inspiration. He was so -born.”</p> -<p>Once, in a clinch, the fight manager heeled 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 -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb29" href="#pb29" name= -"pb29">29</a>]</span>the bout was over, felt the instant release, and -staggered clear.</p> -<p>“He’ll—he’ll do,” he gasped, looking -the admiration he lacked the breath to utter.</p> -<p>Old Pat’s eyes were brightly moist with pride and triumph.</p> -<p>“An’ what will you be thinkin’ to happen when some -of the gay an’ ugly ones tries to rough it on him?” he -asked.</p> -<p>“He’ll kill them, sure,” was Stubener’s -verdict.</p> -<p>“No; he’s too cool for that. But he’ll just hurt -them some for their dirtiness.”</p> -<p>“Let’s draw up the contract,” said the -manager.</p> -<p>“Wait till you know the whole worth of him!” Old Pat -answered. “’Tis strong terms I’ll be makin’ you -come to. Go for a deer-hunt with the boy over the hills an’ learn -the lungs and the legs of <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb30" href= -"#pb30" name="pb30">30</a>]</span>him. Then we’ll sign up -iron-clad and regular.”</p> -<p>Stubener 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-hardened 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.</p> -<p>“I’d swear all right if I wanted to,” <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb31" href="#pb31" name="pb31">31</a>]</span>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.”</p> -<p>Old Pat, resolutely adhering to his decision, said good-by at the -cabin.</p> -<p>“It won’t be long, Pat, boy, when I’ll be -readin’ about you in the papers. I’d like to go along, but -I’m afeard it’s me for the mountains till the -end.”</p> -<p>And then, drawing the manager aside, the old man turned loose on him -almost savagely.</p> -<p>“Remember what I’ve ben tellin’ ye over an’ -over. The boy’s clean an’ 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 meanin’ of fake. He knows only -the bravery, an’ romance an’ glory of fightin’, and -I’ve filled him up with tales of the old ring heroes, though -little enough, God <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb32" href="#pb32" -name="pb32">32</a>]</span>knows, it’s set him afire. Man, man, -I’m tellin’ you that I clipped the fight columns from the -newspapers to keep it ’way from him—him a-thinkin’ I -was wantin’ them for me scrap book. He don’t know a man -ever lay down or threw 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 contract’s broke of itself. No snide division -of stake-money; no secret arrangements with the movin’ pitcher -men for guaranteed distance. There’s slathers o’ money for -the both of you. But play it square or you lose. Understand?</p> -<p>“And whatever you’ll be doin’ 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 an’ damnation, remember that. But when you do find the one, -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb33" href="#pb33" name= -"pb33">33</a>]</span>the only one, hang on to her. She’ll be -worth more than glory an’ money. But first be sure, an’ -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 an’ smithereens. Pat, boy, a good woman is -… a good woman. ’Tis the first word and the last.” -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb34" href="#pb34" name= -"pb34">34</a>]</span></p> -</div> -</div> -<div id="ch3" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= -"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> -<div class="divHead"> -<h2 class="main">III</h2> -</div> -<div class="divBody"> -<p class="first">Once in San Francisco, Sam Stubener’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.</p> -<p>“I came down here to fight,” he announced, at the end of -the first week.</p> -<p>“Where’s Jim Hanford?”</p> -<p>Stubener whistled.</p> -<p>“A big champion like him wouldn’t look at you,” -was his answer. “ ‘Go and get a reputation,’ is -what he’d say.”</p> -<p>“I can lick him.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb35" -href="#pb35" name="pb35">35</a>]</span></p> -<p>“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.”</p> -<p>“I can.”</p> -<p>“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 -and the big purses. That’s why Jim Hanford wouldn’t -consider you for a second. There’d be nothing in it for him. -Besides, he’s getting three thousand a week right now in -vaudeville, with a contract for twenty-five weeks. Do you think -he’d chuck that for a go with a man no one ever heard of? -You’ve got to do something first, make a record. You’ve got -to begin on the little local dubs that nobody ever heard of—guys -like Chub Collins, Rough-House Kelly, and the Flying Dutchman. When -you’ve put them away, you’re only started on the first -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb36" href="#pb36" name= -"pb36">36</a>]</span>round of the ladder. But after that you’ll -go up like a balloon.”</p> -<p>“I’ll meet those three named in the same ring one after -the other,” was Pat’s decision. “Make the -arrangements accordingly.”</p> -<p>Stubener laughed.</p> -<p>“What’s wrong? Don’t you think I can put them -away?”</p> -<p>“I know you can,” Stubener 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.”</p> -<p>Pat sighed at the prospect, then brightened up.</p> -<p>“And after that I can retire and go back home to the old -man,” he said. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb37" href="#pb37" -name="pb37">37</a>]</span></p> -<p>Stubener was about to reply, but checked himself. Strange as was -this championship material, he felt confident that when the top was -reached it would prove very similar to that of all the others who had -gone before. Besides, two years was a long way off, and there was much -to be done in the meantime.</p> -<p>When Pat fell to moping around his quarters, reading endless poetry -books and novels drawn from the public library, Stubener sent him off -to live on a Contra Costa ranch across the Bay, under the watchful eye -of Spider Walsh. At the end of a week Spider whispered that the job was -a cinch. His charge was away and over the hills from dawn till dark, -whipping the streams for trout, shooting quail and rabbits, and -pursuing the one lone and crafty buck famous for having survived a -decade of hunters. It was the Spider who waxed lazy and fat, while -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb38" href="#pb38" name= -"pb38">38</a>]</span>his charge kept himself in condition.</p> -<p>As Stubener expected, his unknown was laughed at by the fight club -managers. Were not the woods full of unknowns who were always breaking -out with championship rashes? A preliminary, say of four -rounds—yes, they would grant him that. But the main -event—never. Stubener 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 fifteen rounds with Rough-House Kelly -for a purse of one hundred dollars. It was the custom of young fighters -to assume the names of old ring heroes, so no one suspected that he was -the son of the great Pat Glendon, while Stubener held his peace. It was -a good <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb39" href="#pb39" name= -"pb39">39</a>]</span>press surprise package to spring later.</p> -<p>Came the night of the fight, after a month of waiting. -Stubener’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.</p> -<p>“Cheer up, boy,” Stubener said, slapping him on the -shoulder. “The first time in the ring is always strange, and -Kelly has a way of letting his opponent wait for him on the chance of -getting stage-fright.”</p> -<p>“It isn’t that,” Pat answered. “It’s -the tobacco smoke. I’m not used to it, and it’s making me -fair sick.”</p> -<p>His manager experienced the quick shock of relief. A man who turned -sick from mental causes, even if he were a <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb40" href="#pb40" name="pb40">40</a>]</span>Samson, -could never win to place in the prize ring. As for tobacco smoke, the -youngster would have to get used to it, that was all.</p> -<p>Young Pat’s entrance into the ring had been met with silence, -but when Rough-House Kelly crawled through the ropes his greeting was -uproarious. He did not belie his name. He was a ferocious-looking man, -black and hairy, with huge, knotty muscles, weighing a full two hundred -pounds. Pat looked across at him curiously, and received a savage -scowl. After both had been introduced to the audience, they shook -hands. And even as their gloves gripped, Kelly ground his teeth, -convulsed his face with an expression of rage, and muttered:</p> -<p>“You’ve got yer nerve wid yeh.” He flung -Pat’s hand roughly from his, and hissed, “I’ll eat -yeh up, ye pup!”</p> -<p>The audience laughed at the action, <span class="pagenum">[<a id= -"pb41" href="#pb41" name="pb41">41</a>]</span>and it guessed -hilariously at what Kelly must have said.</p> -<p>Back in his corner, and waiting the gong, Pat turned to -Stubener.</p> -<p>“Why is he angry with me?” he asked.</p> -<p>“He ain’t,” Stubener answered. “That’s -his way, trying to scare you. It’s just -mouth-fighting.”</p> -<p>“It isn’t boxing,” was Pat’s comment; and -Stubener, with a quick glance, noted that his eyes were as mildly blue -as ever.</p> -<p>“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.”</p> -<p>And like a man-eater Kelly did come at him, rushing across the ring -in wild fury. Pat, who in his easy way had advanced only a couple of -paces, gauged the other’s momentum, side-stepped, and brought his -stiff-arched right across to the jaw. Then he stood and looked on with -a great <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb42" href="#pb42" name= -"pb42">42</a>]</span>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 seconds.</p> -<p>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.</p> -<p>“What happened?” he queried hoarsely. “Did the -roof fall on me?” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb43" href= -"#pb43" name="pb43">43</a>]</span></p> -</div> -</div> -<div id="ch4" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= -"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> -<div class="divHead"> -<h2 class="main">IV</h2> -</div> -<div class="divBody"> -<p class="first">As a result of his fight with Kelly, though the -general opinion was that he had won by a fluke, Pat was matched with -Rufe Mason. This took place three weeks later, and the Sierra Club -audience at Dreamland Rink failed to see what happened. Rufe Mason 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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb44" -href="#pb44" name="pb44">44</a>]</span>audience saw. Rufe Mason made a -feint with his right. It was obviously not a real feint, but a feeler, -a mere tentative threatening of a possible blow. It was at this instant -that Pat loosed his punch. So close together were they that the -distance the blow traveled was a scant eight inches. It was a short-arm -left jolt, and it was 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 Rufe 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 Rufe 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. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb45" href= -"#pb45" name="pb45">45</a>]</span></p> -<p>“No wonder,” he told a reporter, “that Rough-House -Kelly thought the roof hit him.”</p> -<p>After Chub Collins had been put out in the twelfth second of the -first round of a fifteen-round contest, Stubener felt compelled to -speak to Pat.</p> -<p>“Do you know what they’re calling you now?” he -asked.</p> -<p>Pat shook his head.</p> -<p>“One Punch Glendon.”</p> -<p>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.</p> -<p>“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.” <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb46" href="#pb46" name="pb46">46</a>]</span></p> -<p>“I’m here to fight, ain’t I?” Pat demanded -in surprise.</p> -<p>Again Stubener shook his head.</p> -<p>“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 a 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?”</p> -<p>Pat was convinced, and he promised to give future audiences the -requisite run for their money, though he stated that, personally, he -preferred going fishing to witnessing a hundred rounds of fighting.</p> -<p>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 Rough-House <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb47" href="#pb47" -name="pb47">47</a>]</span>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.</p> -<p>So it was that his fourth match was arranged with Pete Sosso, a -Portuguese fighter from Butchertown, 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.</p> -<p>Young Pat arrived back in San Francisco with so close a margin of -time that he changed into his fighting togs <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb48" href="#pb48" name="pb48">48</a>]</span>directly -from his traveling suit, and even then the audience was kept waiting -ten minutes.</p> -<p>“Remember, give him a chance,” Stubener 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.”</p> -<p>Pat obeyed instructions, and, though it would have been easy enough -to put Sosso 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. Sosso’s whirlwind attacks, wild feints, -retreats, and rushes, required all Pat’s science to protect -himself, and even then he did not escape unscathed.</p> -<p>Stubener praised him in the minute-rests, and all would have been -well, had not Sosso, in the fourth round, played one of his most -spectacular tricks. Pat, in a <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb49" href= -"#pb49" name="pb49">49</a>]</span>mix-up, had landed a hook to -Sosso’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 grogginess. Pat could not understand. It had not been a -knock-out 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. -Sosso staggered away, almost fell, recovered, and staggered obliquely -and blindly forward again.</p> -<p>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. Still reeling, Sosso 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 hear. He saw only -Sosso before him, <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb50" href="#pb50" -name="pb50">50</a>]</span>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 -feint 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 Sosso’s mouth ere his falling body struck -the floor. The club doctors worked half an hour to bring him to. After -that they put eleven stitches in his mouth and packed him off in an -ambulance.</p> -<p>“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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id= -"pb51" href="#pb51" name="pb51">51</a>]</span>know I could lose my -temper that way, but now that I know I’ll keep it in -control.”</p> -<p>And Stubener believed him. He was coming to the stage where he could -believe anything about his young charge.</p> -<p>“You don’t need to get angry,” he said, -“you’re so thoroughly the master of your man at any -stage.”</p> -<p>“At any inch or second of the fight,” Pat affirmed.</p> -<p>“And you can put them out any time you want.”</p> -<p>“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 blarneying me. Now that I’ve been -up against these men, I guess he was right. <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb52" href="#pb52" name="pb52">52</a>]</span>He said -I had the mind and muscle correlation.”</p> -<p>“At any inch or second of the fight,” Stubener repeated -musingly.</p> -<p>Pat nodded, and Stubener, absolutely believing him, caught a vision -of a golden future that should have fetched old Pat out of his -grave.</p> -<p>“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 bout will be with -the Flying Dutchman. Suppose you let it run the full fifteen and put -him out in the last round. That will give you a chance to make a -showing as well.”</p> -<p>“All right, Sam,” was the answer.</p> -<p>“It will be a test for you,” Stubener warned. “You -may fail to put him out in that last round.”</p> -<p>“Watch me.” Pat paused to put <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb53" href="#pb53" name="pb53">53</a>]</span>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.”</p> -<p>“You bet it is,” his manager proclaimed jubilantly, -“though what you see in such stuff is beyond me.”</p> -<p>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 school -teacher who scared him off into the woods. <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb54" href="#pb54" name="pb54">54</a>]</span></p> -</div> -</div> -<div id="ch5" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= -"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> -<div class="divHead"> -<h2 class="main">V</h2> -</div> -<div class="divBody"> -<p class="first">“Where are you going?” Stubener demanded -in surprise, looking at his watch.</p> -<p>Pat, with his hand on the door-knob, paused and turned around.</p> -<p>“To the Academy of Sciences,” he said. -“There’s a professor who’s going to give a lecture -there on Browning to-night, and Browning is the sort of writer you need -assistance with. Sometimes I think I ought to go to night -school.”</p> -<p>“But great Scott, man!” exclaimed the horrified manager. -“You’re on with the Flying Dutchman to-night.”</p> -<p>“I know it. But I won’t enter the ring a moment before -half past nine or quarter to ten. The lecture will be over at -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb55" href="#pb55" name= -"pb55">55</a>]</span>nine fifteen. If you want to make sure, come -around and pick me up in your machine.”</p> -<p>Stubener shrugged his shoulders helplessly.</p> -<p>“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.”</p> -<p>And later that night, in the course of watching fifteen splendid -rounds, Stubener 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. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb56" href="#pb56" name= -"pb56">56</a>]</span></p> -<p>The Flying Dutchman was a young Swede who possessed an unwonted -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 out-fighting his arms whirled about like flails, -in the in-fighting he was forever shouldering or half-wrestling and -starting blows whenever he could get a hand free. From start to finish -he was a whirlwind, hence his name. His failing was 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 fusillades 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, <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb57" href="#pb57" name= -"pb57">57</a>]</span>and in a mild way he enjoyed the contest.</p> -<p>“Could you get him now?” Stubener whispered in his ear -during the minute rest at the end of the fifth round.</p> -<p>“Sure,” was Pat’s answer.</p> -<p>“You know he’s never yet been knocked out by any -one,” Stubener warned a couple of rounds later.</p> -<p>“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 land it something’s got to go. If he won’t, -my knuckles will.”</p> -<p>“Do you think you could get him now?” Stubener asked at -the end of the thirteenth round.</p> -<p>“Anytime, I tell you.”</p> -<p>“Well, then, Pat, let him run to the fifteenth.”</p> -<p>In the fourteenth round the Flying Dutchman exceeded himself. At the -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb58" href="#pb58" name= -"pb58">58</a>]</span>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 feint 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 on either side his face, or both elbows and -forearms guarded his mid-section; 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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb59" href="#pb59" name= -"pb59">59</a>]</span>rocking with the impacts of the storming blows -that beat upon his various guards the devil’s own tattoo.</p> -<p>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.</p> -<p>“Now are you going to get him?” Stubener queried -anxiously.</p> -<p>“Inside ten seconds,” was Pat’s confident -assertion. “Watch me.”</p> -<p>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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb60" href="#pb60" -name="pb60">60</a>]</span>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 the fraction of a second they faced each other -in position. Then the Flying Dutchman leaped forward upon his man, and -Pat, with a timed right-cross, dropped him cold as he leaped.</p> -<p>It was after this battle that Pat Glendon started on his upward rush -to fame. The sports and the sporting writers 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 he was, he would go far. The time -was already past, the writers asserted, for him to waste himself on the -third-raters and chopping <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb61" href= -"#pb61" name="pb61">61</a>]</span>blocks. Where were Ben Menzies, Rege -Rede, 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?</p> -<p>And then fame came in a day; for Stubener 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.</p> -<p>Beginning with Ben Menzies and finishing with Bill Tarwater, he -challenged, fought, and knocked out the four second-raters. To do this, -he was compelled to travel, the battles taking place in Goldfield, -Denver, Texas, and New York. To accomplish it required months, -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb62" href="#pb62" name= -"pb62">62</a>]</span>for the bigger fights were not easily arranged, -and the men themselves demanded more time for training.</p> -<p>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 Stubener 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 half way around the world to defeat him on Boxing Day in -Australia.</p> -<p>But the purses grew larger and larger. In place of a hundred -dollars, such as his first battles had earned him, he was now receiving -from twenty to thirty thousand dollars a fight, as well as equally -large <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb63" href="#pb63" name= -"pb63">63</a>]</span>sums from the moving picture men. Stubener 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.</p> -<p>Stubener was attracted to real estate, and his holdings in San -Francisco, consisting of building flats and apartment houses, were -bigger than Glendon ever dreamed. There was a secret syndicate of -bettors, however, which could have made an accurate guess at the size -of Stubener’s holdings, while heavy bonus after heavy bonus, of -which Glendon never heard, was paid over to his manager by the moving -picture men.</p> -<p>Stubener’s most serious task was in maintaining the innocence -of his young gladiator. Nor did he find it difficult. <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb64" href="#pb64" name="pb64">64</a>]</span>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 -Stubener intervened between Glendon and the world. He was never even -interviewed save in Stubener’s presence.</p> -<p>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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb65" href="#pb65" name= -"pb65">65</a>]</span>and shouldered past him without reply. He brought -the tale of it to Stubener, who said:</p> -<p>“It’s only con, Pat. They were trying to josh -you.” He noted the blue eyes blaze. “And maybe 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 any more. 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 to-day. 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.”</p> -<p>And all the while he talked, Stubener knew in his heart that the -forthcoming fight with Henderson was not to be <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb66" href="#pb66" name="pb66">66</a>]</span>shorter -than twelve rounds—this for the moving pictures—and not -longer than the fourteenth round. And he knew, furthermore, so big were -the stakes involved, that Henderson himself was pledged not to last -beyond the fourteenth.</p> -<p>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, <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb67" href= -"#pb67" name="pb67">67</a>]</span>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 hailed 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 Brute,” 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.</p> -<p>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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb68" href="#pb68" name= -"pb68">68</a>]</span>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 Sulzberger, the gigantic German, try as he would in the -eighteenth round, he failed to get him, in the nineteenth it was the -same story, and not till the twentieth did he manage to break through -the baffling guard and drop him. Glendon’s increasing enjoyment -of the game was accompanied by severer 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 Stubener noted -with secret glee was that his young fighter no <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb69" href="#pb69" name="pb69">69</a>]</span>longer -talked of going permanently back to his mountains when he had won the -championship away from Jim Hanford. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb70" -href="#pb70" name="pb70">70</a>]</span></p> -</div> -</div> -<div id="ch6" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= -"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> -<div class="divHead"> -<h2 class="main">VI</h2> -</div> -<div class="divBody"> -<p class="first">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 Cannam. And all -would have been well had not a certain society girl gone adventuring -into journalism, and had not Stubener agreed to an interview with the -woman reporter of the San Francisco “Courier-Journal.” -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb71" href="#pb71" name= -"pb71">71</a>]</span></p> -<p>Her work was always published over the name of Maud Sangster, which, -by the way, was her own name. The Sangsters were a notoriously wealthy -family. The founder, old Jacob Sangster, had packed his blankets and -worked as a farm-hand 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 timber lands 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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb72" href="#pb72" name= -"pb72">72</a>]</span>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 Sangster.</p> -<p>Maud Sangster was Theodore’s oldest daughter. The Sangster -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 Sangster breed, for she had come to -womanhood <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb73" href="#pb73" name= -"pb73">73</a>]</span>and done a multitude of things of which no woman -in her position should have been guilty. A match in ten thousand, she -remained unmarried. She had sojourned in Europe without bringing home a -nobleman 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 the society weeklies agog with her -unconventionalities, walked from San Mateo 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.</p> -<p>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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb74" href="#pb74" -name="pb74">74</a>]</span>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 twenty -dollars a week, her salary had swiftly risen to fifty. Her work was -principally musical, dramatic, and art criticism, though 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 in a -diver’s suit, and flew with Rood, the bird man, when he broke all -records of continuous flight by reaching as far as Riverside.</p> -<p>Now it must not be imagined that Maud Sangster was a hard-bitten -Amazon. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb75" href="#pb75" name= -"pb75">75</a>]</span>On the contrary, she was a gray-eyed, slender -young 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 a woman. Also, far in excess of most outdoor women, she -knew how to be daintily feminine.</p> -<p>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 prizefighter 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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb76" href="#pb76" name= -"pb76">76</a>]</span>gleaned that he was a man-monster, profoundly -stupid and with the sullenness 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 at the hour appointed by Stubener.</p> -<p>That real estate owner was having trouble. Pat was rebellious. He -sat, one big leg dangling over the side of the arm chair and -Shakespeare’s Sonnets face downward on his knee, orating against -the new woman.</p> -<p>“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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id= -"pb77" href="#pb77" name="pb77">77</a>]</span>one. I never have stood -for women around the training quarters, and I don’t care if she -is a reporter.”</p> -<p>“But she’s not an ordinary reporter,” Stubener -interposed. “You’ve heard of the Sangsters?—the -millionaires?”</p> -<p>Pat nodded.</p> -<p>“Well, she’s one of them. She’s high society and -all that stuff. She could be running with the Blingum crowd now if she -wanted to instead of working for wages. Her old man’s worth fifty -millions if he’s worth a cent.”</p> -<p>“Then what’s she working on a paper for?—keeping -some poor devil out of a job.”</p> -<p>“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. <span class="pagenum">[<a id= -"pb78" href="#pb78" name="pb78">78</a>]</span>There isn’t a -pen-pusher on the Coast can touch her when she gets going.”</p> -<p>Pat began to show interest, and Stubener hurried on.</p> -<p>“She writes poetry, too—the regular la-de-dah 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.”</p> -<p>“I’ve seen her name in the papers,” Pat -commented.</p> -<p>“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.”</p> -<p>Pat looked his gratitude.</p> -<p>“And another thing, Pat: don’t forget you’ve got -to put up with this interviewing. It’s part of your business. -It’s <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb79" href="#pb79" name= -"pb79">79</a>]</span>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.”</p> -<p>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 <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb80" href="#pb80" name="pb80">80</a>]</span>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 sign 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 sort 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, -marveling at its fragility.</p> -<p>She, on the other hand, had proceeded <span class="pagenum">[<a id= -"pb81" href="#pb81" name="pb81">81</a>]</span>to obliterate the echoes -of that first clear call. It had been a peculiar experience, that was -all, this sudden out-rush 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 of the same -stupid order? She smiled at the way he continued to hold her hand.</p> -<p>“I’ll have it back, please, Mr. Glendon,” she -said. “I … I really need it, you know.”</p> -<p>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.</p> -<p>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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb82" href="#pb82" -name="pb82">82</a>]</span>at anything. And also, she found herself -pleased with the fact that he lacked the easy glibness to murmur an -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.</p> -<p>Stubener by this time had fetched a chair for her, and Glendon -automatically sank down into his.</p> -<p>“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?”</p> -<p>Glendon was bothered by this. His brows contracted in a troubled -way, and he made no reply.</p> -<p>“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 am sure.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb83" href= -"#pb83" name="pb83">83</a>]</span></p> -<p>“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.”</p> -<p>“We’ll do nothing of the sort,” Glendon growled -roughly, in just the way an abysmal brute should. “Go ahead with -the interview.”</p> -<p>The business went ahead unsatisfactorily. Stubener did most of the -talking and suggesting, which was sufficient to irritate Maud Sangster, -while Pat volunteered nothing. She studied his fine countenance, the -eyes clear blue and wide apart, the well-modeled, 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 papers said of -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb84" href="#pb84" name= -"pb84">84</a>]</span>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 Stubener.</p> -<p>“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 Stubener). “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.”</p> -<p>Pat and Stubener began speaking together, but for once Pat bore his -manager down.</p> -<p>“I didn’t care for it at first—” -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb85" href="#pb85" name= -"pb85">85</a>]</span></p> -<p>“You see, it was too dead easy for him,” Stubener -interrupted.</p> -<p>“But later,” Pat went on, “when I encountered the -better fighters, the real big clever ones, where I was -more—”</p> -<p>“On your mettle?” she suggested.</p> -<p>“Yes; that’s it, more on my mettle, 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 -problem which I must work out with my wits and muscle, yet to me the -issue is never in doubt—”</p> -<p>“He’s never had a fight go to a decision,” -Stubener proclaimed. “He’s won every battle by the -knock-out route.”</p> -<p>“And it’s this certainty of the outcome that robs it of -what I imagine must be its finest thrills,” Pat concluded.</p> -<p>“Maybe you’ll get some of them <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb86" href="#pb86" name="pb86">86</a>]</span>thrills -when you go up against Jim Hanford,” said the manager.</p> -<p>Pat smiled, but did not speak.</p> -<p>“Tell me some more,” she urged, “more about the -way you feel when you are fighting.”</p> -<p>And then Pat amazed his manager, Miss Sangster, and himself, by -blurting out:</p> -<p>“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. I—”</p> -<p>He stopped abruptly, aware of what he was saying but unaware of why -he was saying it.</p> -<p>“Yes,” she cried eagerly. “That’s it. That -is what makes a good interview—the real personality, you -know.”</p> -<p>But Pat remained tongue-tied, and Stubener wandered away on a -statistical comparison of his champion’s weights, <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb87" href="#pb87" name= -"pb87">87</a>]</span>measurements, and expansions with those of Sandow, -the Terrible Turk, Jeffries, and the other modern strong men. This was -of little interest to Maud Sangster, and she showed that she was bored. -Her eyes chanced to rest on the Sonnets. She picked the book up and -glanced inquiringly at Stubener.</p> -<p>“That’s Pat’s,” he said. “He goes in -for that kind of stuff, and color photography, and art exhibits, and -such things. But for heaven’s sake don’t publish anything -about it. It would ruin his reputation.”</p> -<p>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. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb88" href= -"#pb88" name="pb88">88</a>]</span>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 Stubener stole the -opportunity away and was back chanting his everlasting statistics.</p> -<p>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 blond 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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb89" href="#pb89" -name="pb89">89</a>]</span>the day before at the -“Courier-Journal” office.</p> -<p>“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?”</p> -<p>Pat shook his head.</p> -<p>“If I am frank?—abominably frank? I’ve heard the -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 your liking the sport for a sport, as well as for the money -it brings you, but I can’t understand—”</p> -<p>“There’s nothing to understand,” <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb90" href="#pb90" name="pb90">90</a>]</span>Stubener -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 rot. There’s nothing to it, Miss -Sangster, I assure you. And now let me tell you about how I discovered -Mr. Glendon. It was a letter I got from his father—”</p> -<p>But Maud Sangster refused to be side-tracked, and addressed herself -to Pat.</p> -<p>“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 nineteenth. This was the night -before. And the next day he triumphantly called my attention to the -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb91" href="#pb91" name= -"pb91">91</a>]</span>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?”</p> -<p>“I know that fight,” Glendon said. “It was Owen -and Murgweather. And it did end in the nineteenth round, Sam. And she -said she heard that round named the day before. How do you account for -it, Sam?”</p> -<p>“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 and seconds and rules and such things often pick the number -of rounds, just as men have been known to pick hundred-to-one shots in -the races. And don’t forget one thing: <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb92" href="#pb92" name="pb92">92</a>]</span>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 -non-existent.”</p> -<p>“What is your opinion, Mr. Glendon?” she asked.</p> -<p>“The same as mine,” Stubener snatched the answer. -“He knows what I say is true, every word of it. He’s never -fought anything but a straight fight in his life. Isn’t that -right, Pat?”</p> -<p>“Yes; it’s right,” Pat affirmed, and the peculiar -thing to Maud Sangster was that she was convinced he spoke the -truth.</p> -<p>She brushed her forehead with her hand, as if to rid herself of the -bepuzzlement that clouded her brain.</p> -<p>“Listen,” she said. “Last night the same editor -told me that your forthcoming <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb93" href= -"#pb93" name="pb93">93</a>]</span>fight was arranged to the very round -in which it would end.”</p> -<p>Stubener was verging on a panic, but Pat’s speech saved him -from replying.</p> -<p>“Then the editor lies,” Pat’s voice boomed now for -the first time.</p> -<p>“He did not lie before, about that other fight,” she -challenged.</p> -<p>“What round did he say my fight with Nat Powers would end -in?”</p> -<p>Before she could answer, the manager was into the thick of it.</p> -<p>“Oh, rats, Pat!” he cried. “Shut up. It’s -only the regular run of ring rumors. Let’s get on with this -interview.”</p> -<p>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 <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb94" href="#pb94" name="pb94">94</a>]</span>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.</p> -<p>“What round did the editor say?” Glendon reiterated his -demand.</p> -<p>“For the love of Mike, Pat, stop this foolishness,” -Stubener broke in.</p> -<p>“I wish you would give me a chance to answer,” Maud -Sangster said.</p> -<p>“I guess I’m able to talk with Miss Sangster,” -Glendon added. “You get out, Sam. Go off and take care of that -photographer.”</p> -<p>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.</p> -<p>“And now what round did he say?”</p> -<p>“I hope I haven’t made a mistake,” she said -tremulously, “but I am very sure that he said the sixteenth -round.”</p> -<p>She saw surprise and anger leap into <span class="pagenum">[<a id= -"pb95" href="#pb95" name="pb95">95</a>]</span>Glendon’s face, and -the anger and accusation in the glance he cast at his manager, and she -knew the blow had driven home.</p> -<p>And there was reason for his anger. He knew he had talked it over -with Stubener, 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 sixteenth. And here was a woman, from a newspaper -office, naming the very round.</p> -<p>Stubener, in the doorway, looked limp and pale, and it was evident -he was holding himself together by an effort.</p> -<p>“I’ll see you later,” Pat told him. “Shut -the door behind you.”</p> -<p>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.</p> -<p>“Well?” she asked.</p> -<p>He got up and towered above her, then <span class="pagenum">[<a id= -"pb96" href="#pb96" name="pb96">96</a>]</span>sat down again, -moistening his lips with his tongue.</p> -<p>“I’ll tell you one thing,” he finally said -“The fight won’t end in the sixteenth round.”</p> -<p>She did not speak, but her unconvinced and quizzical smile hurt -him.</p> -<p>“You wait and see, Miss Sangster, and you’ll see that -editor man is mistaken.”</p> -<p>“You mean the program is to be changed?” she queried -audaciously.</p> -<p>He quivered to the cut of her words.</p> -<p>“I am not accustomed to lying,” he said stiffly, -“even to women.”</p> -<p>“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.”</p> -<p>“I’ll tell you that round, and not another soul shall -know.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb97" href="#pb97" name= -"pb97">97</a>]</span></p> -<p>She shrugged her shoulders and smiled.</p> -<p>“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?”</p> -<p>For reply, Glendon walked over to the window, as if to look out, -where he changed his mind and partly turned, and she knew, without -seeing, that he was studying her face. He came back and sat down.</p> -<p>“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 am going to tell you? Will you take the -word of a … prize-fighter?” <span class="pagenum">[<a id= -"pb98" href="#pb98" name="pb98">98</a>]</span></p> -<p>She nodded gravely, looking him straight in the eyes and certain -that what he was about to tell was the truth.</p> -<p>“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, Stubener and I -have talked this fight over, and it was understood between us that I -would end the fight in the sixteenth round. Now you bring the same -word. How did that editor know? Not from me. Stubener must have let it -out … 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 <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb99" href="#pb99" name="pb99">99</a>]</span>open and -wait and learn. Every word I’ve given you is straight, and -there’s my hand on it.”</p> -<p>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 those two hands—the soft and -fragile feminine and the heavy, muscular masculine—was startling. -Glendon was the first to speak.</p> -<p>“You could be hurt so easily,” he said; and at the same -time she felt the firmness of his grip almost caressingly relax.</p> -<p>She remembered the old Prussian king’s love for giants, and -laughed at the incongruity of the thought-association as she withdrew -her hand. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb100" href="#pb100" name= -"pb100">100</a>]</span></p> -<p>“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.”</p> -<p>“You have surprised me,” she urged. “It seemed to -me that it 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.”</p> -<p>He nodded his head.</p> -<p>“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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id= -"pb101" href="#pb101" name="pb101">101</a>]</span>over my eyes. Yet it -remains to be seen whether it has really been pulled over or not. You -see, I am going to find out for myself.”</p> -<p>“And change it?” she queried, rather breathlessly, -convinced somehow that he could do anything he set out to -accomplish.</p> -<p>“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 fight with Nat Powers won’t end in the -sixteenth round. If there is any truth in that editor’s tip, -they’ll all be fooled. Instead of putting him out in the -sixteenth, I’ll let the fight run on into the twenties. You wait -and see.”</p> -<p>“And I’m not to tell the editor?”</p> -<p>She was on her feet now, preparing to go.</p> -<p>“Certainly not. If he is only guessing, <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb102" href="#pb102" name="pb102">102</a>]</span>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. I won’t run it into the twenties. I’ll stop -Nat Powers in the eighteenth.”</p> -<p>“And I’ll not whisper it,” she assured him.</p> -<p>“I’d like to ask you a favor,” he said -tentatively. “Maybe it’s a big favor.”</p> -<p>She showed her acquiescence in her face, as if it were already -granted, and he went on:</p> -<p>“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.”</p> -<p>She gave him a quick look with her searching gray eyes, then -surprised herself by her answer. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb103" -href="#pb103" name="pb103">103</a>]</span></p> -<p>“Certainly,” she said. “It will not be published. -I won’t write a line of it.”</p> -<p>“I knew it,” he said simply.</p> -<p>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.</p> -<p>“How did you know it?” she asked.</p> -<p>“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “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.”</p> -<p>“But why not publish the interview? As your manager says, it -is good advertising.”</p> -<p>“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 <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb104" href="#pb104" name="pb104">104</a>]</span>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.”</p> -<p>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 naïve and -simple frankness on his part and not a practised artfulness.</p> -<p>He saw her into her machine, and gave her another thrill when he -said good-by. Once again their hands were clasped as he said: -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb105" href="#pb105" name= -"pb105">105</a>]</span></p> -<p>“Some day 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.”</p> -<p>And 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.</p> -<p>Back in the training quarters, Glendon encountered his perturbed -manager.</p> -<p>“What did you fire me out for?” Stubener 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.”</p> -<p>Glendon, who had been regarding him with cool amusement, made as if -to turn and pass on, and then changed his mind.</p> -<p>“It won’t come out,” he said.</p> -<p>Stubener looked up sharply. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb106" -href="#pb106" name="pb106">106</a>]</span></p> -<p>“I asked her not to,” Glendon explained.</p> -<p>Then Stubener exploded.</p> -<p>“As if she’d kill a juicy thing like that.”</p> -<p>Glendon became very cold and his voice was harsh and grating.</p> -<p>“It won’t be published. She told me so. And to doubt it -is to call her a liar.”</p> -<p>The Irish flame was in his eyes, and by that, and by the unconscious -clenching of his passion-wrought hands, Stubener, who knew the strength -of them, and of the man he faced, no longer dared to doubt. -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb107" href="#pb107" name= -"pb107">107</a>]</span></p> -</div> -</div> -<div id="ch7" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= -"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> -<div class="divHead"> -<h2 class="main">VII</h2> -</div> -<div class="divBody"> -<p class="first">It did not take Stubener 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 bettors, -and the betting syndicate was not to be denied its harvest.</p> -<p>On the night of the fight, Maud Sangster 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 ring-side <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb108" href="#pb108" -name="pb108">108</a>]</span>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.</p> -<p>As was the growing custom, there 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 his 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 -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb109" href="#pb109" name= -"pb109">109</a>]</span>spread over his face as to defy the -surgeon’s art to reconstruct it.</p> -<p>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.</p> -<p>As they made their preliminary pose <span class="pagenum">[<a id= -"pb110" href="#pb110" name="pb110">110</a>]</span>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.</p> -<p>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 Maud Sangster found the play and feint 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.</p> -<p>Powers fought easily and cleanly, as became the hero of half a -hundred ring battles, and an admiring claque applauded <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb111" href="#pb111" name="pb111">111</a>]</span>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.</p> -<p>It was at such a moment, when her unpractised eye could not inform -her that Glendon was escaping serious damage, that the editor leaned to -her and said:</p> -<p>“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.”</p> -<p>“Or after?” she asked.</p> -<p>She almost laughed at the certitude of her companion’s -negative. She knew better.</p> -<p>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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb112" href="#pb112" -name="pb112">112</a>]</span>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 Glendon 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 in-fighting, -he received the weight of punches that he knew had been deliberately -made no heavier.</p> -<p>On Glendon’s part, there were times and times when a slip or -error of judgment could have exposed him to one of his -antagonist’s sledge-hammer blows and <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb113" href="#pb113" name="pb113">113</a>]</span>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.</p> -<p>At the end of the fifteenth 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.”</p> -<p>It was just before the gong for the sixteenth round struck that -Stubener, leaning over Glendon from behind in his corner, -whispered:</p> -<p>“Are you going to get him now?”</p> -<p>Glendon, with a back toss of his head, shook it and laughed -mockingly up into his manager’s anxious face. <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb114" href="#pb114" name="pb114">114</a>]</span></p> -<p>With the stroke of the gong for the sixteenth 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.</p> -<p>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 <span class="corr" id="xd26e1089" title= -"Source: snydicate">syndicate</span> hard hit. But that minute was not -to be. They had just come together in the <span class="pagenum">[<a id= -"pb115" href="#pb115" name="pb115">115</a>]</span>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 -above him, was shouting the count.</p> -<p>At the cry of “Nine!” Powers quivered as if making a -vain effort to rise.</p> -<p>“Ten!—and out!” cried the referee.</p> -<p>He caught Glendon’s hand and raised it aloft to the roaring -audience in token that he was the winner. <span class="pagenum">[<a id= -"pb116" href="#pb116" name="pb116">116</a>]</span></p> -<p>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.</p> -<p>Glendon shot a swift glance through the ropes to the face of Maud -Sangster. 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. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb117" href="#pb117" name= -"pb117">117</a>]</span></p> -<p>Powers’ 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 Stubener was ahead of -them. His face was beaming as he caught Glendon’s right glove in -both his hands and cried:</p> -<p>“Good boy, Pat. I knew you’d do it.”</p> -<p>Glendon pulled his glove away. And for the first time in the years -they had been together, his manager heard him swear.</p> -<p>“You go to hell,” he said, and turned to hold out his -hands for his seconds to pull off the gloves. <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb118" href="#pb118" name="pb118">118</a>]</span></p> -</div> -</div> -<div id="ch8" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= -"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> -<div class="divHead"> -<h2 class="main">VIII</h2> -</div> -<div class="divBody"> -<p class="first">That night, after receiving the editor’s final -dictum that there was not a square fighter in the game, Maud Sangster -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.</p> -<p>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 -Cannam, when <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb119" href="#pb119" name= -"pb119">119</a>]</span>one of the door-boys brought in a card. It was -Glendon’s.</p> -<p>“Tell him I can’t be seen,” she told the boy.</p> -<p>In a minute he was back.</p> -<p>“He says he’s coming in anyway, but he’d rather -have your permission.”</p> -<p>“Did you tell him I was busy?” she asked.</p> -<p>“Yes’m, but he said he was coming just the -same.”</p> -<p>She made no answer, and the boy, his eyes shining with admiration -for the importunate visitor, rattled on.</p> -<p>“I know’m. He’s a awful big guy. If he started -roughhousing he could clean the whole office out. He’s young -Glendon, who won the fight last night.”</p> -<p>“Very well, then. Bring him in. We don’t want the office -cleaned out, you know.”</p> -<p>No greetings were exchanged when <span class="pagenum">[<a id= -"pb120" href="#pb120" name="pb120">120</a>]</span>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.</p> -<p>“I want to talk to you,” he said shortly. “That -fight. It did end in that round.”</p> -<p>She shrugged her shoulders.</p> -<p>“I knew it would.”</p> -<p>“You didn’t,” he retorted. “You -didn’t. I didn’t.”</p> -<p>She turned and looked at him with quiet affectation of boredom.</p> -<p>“What is the use?” she asked. “Prize-fighting is -prize-fighting, and we all know what it means. The fight did end in the -round I told you it would.”</p> -<p>“It did,” he agreed. “But you didn’t -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb121" href="#pb121" name= -"pb121">121</a>]</span>know it would. In all the world you and I were -at least two that knew Powers wouldn’t be knocked out in the -sixteenth.”</p> -<p>She remained silent.</p> -<p>“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.</p> -<p>She nodded her head.</p> -<p>“But he was,” she insisted.</p> -<p>“He wasn’t. He wasn’t knocked out at all. Do you -get that? I am 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 him knocked out. Yet the blow I struck was not heavy enough. It -didn’t hit him in the right place either. He made believe it did. -He faked that knockout.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb122" -href="#pb122" name="pb122">122</a>]</span></p> -<p>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.</p> -<p>“Well?” he demanded, and she thrilled anew at the -compellingness of him.</p> -<p>She stood up, and her hand went out to his.</p> -<p>“I believe you,” she said. “And I am glad, most -glad.”</p> -<p>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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb123" href="#pb123" -name="pb123">123</a>]</span>if to gather her to him, then checked -himself abruptly, with an unmistakable effort. She saw it, and 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 half crushed -hers, dropped her hand, almost flung it from him.</p> -<p>“God!” he breathed. “You were made for -me.”</p> -<p>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 <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb124" href="#pb124" name="pb124">124</a>]</span>her -chair, and he into another, first drawing it around so as to face her -across the corner of the desk.</p> -<p>“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.</p> -<p>“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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb125" href="#pb125" name= -"pb125">125</a>]</span>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.</p> -<p>“The stuff that old man told me took my breath away. And here -I’ve 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 Stubener, 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 Stubener’s instructions. They -kept me in ignorance. Besides, I didn’t herd with the sporting -crowd. I spent my time hunting and fishing and <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb126" href="#pb126" name= -"pb126">126</a>]</span>monkeying with cameras and such things. Do you -know what Walsh and Stubener 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.</p> -<p>“And Stubener 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 wasn’t interested enough in the game to be -suspicious. I was born with a good body and a cool head, 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.”</p> -<p>She pointed to the headline announcing his match with Tom Cannam. -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb127" href="#pb127" name= -"pb127">127</a>]</span></p> -<p>“That’s Stubener’s work,” he explained. -“It was programmed months ago. But I don’t care. I’m -heading for the mountains. I’ve quit.”</p> -<p>She glanced at the unfinished interview on the desk and sighed.</p> -<p>“How lordly men are,” she said. “Masters of -destiny. They do as they please—”</p> -<p>“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.”</p> -<p>He broke off and looked at her with burning eyes.</p> -<p>“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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb128" href="#pb128" name= -"pb128">128</a>]</span>let go. Come on, let us start for the -mountains.”</p> -<p>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.</p> -<p>He had arisen, and was holding out both hands to her.</p> -<p>“I don’t dare,” she said in a whisper, half to -herself. “I don’t dare.”</p> -<p>And thereat she was stung by the quick contempt that flashed in his -eyes but that swiftly changed to open incredulity.</p> -<p>“You’d dare anything you wanted,” <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb129" href="#pb129" name="pb129">129</a>]</span>he -was saying. “I know that. It’s not a case of dare, but of -want. Do you want?”</p> -<p>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.</p> -<p>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 hat-pins through her hair. And -even as she realized it, she found herself walking beside him through -the opened <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb130" href="#pb130" name= -"pb130">130</a>]</span>door. The “Flight of the Duchess” -and “The Statue and the Bust,” darted through her mind. -Then she remembered “Waring.”</p> -<p>“ ‘What’s become of -Waring?’ ” she murmured.</p> -<p>“ ‘Land travel or sea-faring?’ ” -he murmured back.</p> -<p>And to her this kindred sufficient note was a vindication of her -madness.</p> -<p>At the entrance of the building he raised his hand to call a taxi, -but was stopped by her touch on his arm.</p> -<p>“Where are we going?” she breathed.</p> -<p>“To the Ferry. We’ve just time to catch that Sacramento -train.”</p> -<p>“But I can’t go this way,” she protested. “I -… I haven’t even a change of handkerchiefs.”</p> -<p>He held up his hand again before replying.</p> -<p>“You can shop in Sacramento. We’ll <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb131" href="#pb131" name="pb131">131</a>]</span>get -married there and catch the night overland north. I’ll arrange -everything by telegraph from the train.”</p> -<p>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.</p> -<p>“I don’t know a thing about you,” she said.</p> -<p>“We know everything about each other,” was his -answer.</p> -<p>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.</p> -<p>“I … I’ve heard there was an <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb132" href="#pb132" name="pb132">132</a>]</span>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.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb133" href= -"#pb133" name="pb133">133</a>]</span></p> -</div> -</div> -<div id="ch9" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= -"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> -<div class="divHead"> -<h2 class="main">IX</h2> -</div> -<div class="divBody"> -<p class="first">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 were a pair of -small saddle-bags. 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.</p> -<p>Beneath them and away, far as they could see, lay range upon range -of haze-empurpled <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb134" href="#pb134" -name="pb134">134</a>]</span>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.</p> -<p>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 -saddle-bags, 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 latter was open at the sunburned neck, -and in his hugeness he <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb135" href= -"#pb135" name="pb135">135</a>]</span>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.</p> -<p>“Well, Big Man,” she said, propping herself up on an -elbow to gaze at him, “it is more wonderful than you promised. -And we are going through it together.”</p> -<p>“And there’s a lot of the rest of the world we’ll -go through together,” he answered, shifting his position so as to -get her hand in both of his.</p> -<p>“But not till we’ve finished with this,” she -urged. “I seem never to grow tired of the big woods … and -of you.”</p> -<p>He slid effortlessly into a sitting posture and gathered her into -his arms.</p> -<p>“Oh, you lover,” she whispered. “And I had given -up hope of finding such a one.”</p> -<p>“And I never hoped at all. I must <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb136" href="#pb136" name="pb136">136</a>]</span>just -have known all the time that I was going to find you. Glad?”</p> -<p>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.</p> -<p>“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 forty or fifty 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 some day I’d be -back with you, YOU.”</p> -<p>“And be a champion of the ring, too,” <span class="corr" -id="xd26e1309" title="Source: he">she</span> suggested.</p> -<p>“No; I didn’t think about that at all. Dad had always -told me I was going to be, and I took it for granted. You see, -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb137" href="#pb137" name= -"pb137">137</a>]</span>he was very wise. He was a great man.”</p> -<p>“But he didn’t see you leaving the ring.”</p> -<p>“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 Stubener. Dad put in that clause about -crookedness. The first crooked thing my manager did was to break the -contract.”</p> -<p>“And yet you are going to fight this Tom Cannam. Is it worth -while?”</p> -<p>He looked at her quickly.</p> -<p>“Don’t you want me to?”</p> -<p>“Dear lover, I want you to do whatever you want.”</p> -<p>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. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb138" href="#pb138" -name="pb138">138</a>]</span></p> -<p>“It will be fun,” he said.</p> -<p>“But I don’t understand all the gleeful -details.”</p> -<p>“I haven’t worked them out yet. You might help me. In -the first place I’m going to double-cross Stubener and the -betting syndicate. It will be part of the joke. I am going to put -Cannam out in the first round. For the first time I shall be really -angry when I fight. Poor Tom Cannam, 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.”</p> -<p>“I wish I could be there to hear,” she said. -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb139" href="#pb139" name= -"pb139">139</a>]</span></p> -<p>He looked at her and debated.</p> -<p>“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 Glendon in the ring, in any -ring.”</p> -<p>“But, dear, you’ve never made a speech in your -life,” she objected. “You might fail.”</p> -<p>He shook his head positively.</p> -<p>“I’m Irish,” he announced, “and what -Irishman was there who couldn’t speak?” He paused to laugh -merrily. “Stubener 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 fights. But I’ll show him -that night, and poor Tom, too. I really feel sorry for Tom.” -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb140" href="#pb140" name= -"pb140">140</a>]</span></p> -<p>“My dear abysmal brute is going to behave most abysmally and -brutally, I fear,” she murmured.</p> -<p>He laughed.</p> -<p>“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.”</p> -<p>“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 want it for -you, and for myself, too. Suppose I said I wanted to go on the stage, -or to the South Seas or the North Pole?”</p> -<p>He answered slowly, almost solemnly.</p> -<p>“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.”</p> -<p>“And we’re both a silly pair of lovers,” -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb141" href="#pb141" name= -"pb141">141</a>]</span>she said, when his embrace had relaxed.</p> -<p>“Isn’t it great!” he cried.</p> -<p>He stood up, measured the sun with his eye, and extended his hand -out over the big woods that covered the serried, purple ranges.</p> -<p>“We’ve got to sleep out there somewhere. It’s -thirty miles to the nearest camp.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id= -"pb142" href="#pb142" name="pb142">142</a>]</span></p> -</div> -</div> -<div id="ch10" class="div1 chapter"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= -"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> -<div class="divHead"> -<h2 class="main">X</h2> -</div> -<div class="divBody"> -<p class="first">Who, of all the sports present, will ever forget the -memorable night at the Golden Gate Arena, when Young Glendon put Tom -Cannam to sleep and an even greater one than Tom Cannam, kept the great -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 -Stubener 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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb143" href="#pb143" -name="pb143">143</a>]</span>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.</p> -<p>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 twenty-five thousand, and every seat was occupied. Sports had -traveled from all the world to be present, and they had paid fifty -dollars for their ring-side seats. The cheapest seat in the house had -sold for five dollars.</p> -<p>The old familiar roar of applause went up when Billy Morgan, the -veteran 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 tiers of low seats had collapsed. The crowd broke into -loud laughter and shouted jocular regrets <span class="pagenum">[<a id= -"pb144" href="#pb144" name="pb144">144</a>]</span>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.</p> -<p>One by one, welcomed by uproarious applause, seven doughty old ring -heroes climbed through the ropes to be introduced. They were all -ex-heavy-weight 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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb145" href="#pb145" name= -"pb145">145</a>]</span>them all”; and “the hardest nut in -the ring to crack.”</p> -<p>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 time-keepers and referees. Light-weights and -middle-weights 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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb146" href="#pb146" name= -"pb146">146</a>]</span>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 despatched a -message to headquarters for additional police details.</p> -<p>The crowd was feeling good. When Cannam 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, Stubener was at his -back. Cannam was introduced first, and after he had scraped and ducked -his head, he was compelled to respond to the cries for a speech. He -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb147" href="#pb147" name= -"pb147">147</a>]</span>stammered and halted, but managed to grind out -several ideas.</p> -<p>“I’m proud to be here to-night,” 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 -to-night.”</p> -<p>There were loud cries of: “That’s right, Tom!” -“We know that!” “Good boy, Tom!” -“You’re the boy to fetch the bacon home!”</p> -<p>Then came Glendon’s turn. From him, likewise, a speech was -demanded, though for principals 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.</p> -<p>“Everybody has told you they were proud to be here -to-night,” he said. “I <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb148" -href="#pb148" name="pb148">148</a>]</span>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 to-night 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 to-night.”</p> -<p>The low rumble of astonishment that had been rising at this point -burst into a roar. There were loud boos 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 <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb149" href="#pb149" name="pb149">149</a>]</span>to -make himself heard. The audience was divided, half crying out, -“Fight!” and the other half, “Speech! -Speech!”</p> -<p>Ten minutes of <span class="corr" id="xd26e1418" title= -"Source: hopeles">hopeless</span> madness prevailed. Stubener, 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 in forfeit to Cannam if Glendon -did not fight.</p> -<p>“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 -cheat it out of the fight. Besides, I’m going to fight. But -before I do I’m going to finish my speech.”</p> -<p>“But it’s against the rules,” protested the -referee.</p> -<p>“It’s nothing of the sort. There’s not a word in -the rules against ring-side <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb150" href= -"#pb150" name="pb150">150</a>]</span>speeches. Every big fighter here -to-night has made a speech.”</p> -<p>“Only a few words,” shouted the promoter in -Glendon’s ear. “But you’re giving a -lecture.”</p> -<p>“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.”</p> -<p>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. Stubener and the owner beat a wise -retreat. Glendon held up his hands 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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb151" href="#pb151" name= -"pb151">151</a>]</span>by making a concerted rush to squeeze in on the -still intact seats, while those behind, blocked from sight of the ring, -yelled and raved for them to sit down.</p> -<p>Glendon walked to the ropes and spoke to the police captain. He was -compelled to bend over and shout in his ear.</p> -<p>“If I don’t give this speech,” he said, -“this crowd will wreck the place. If they break <span class= -"corr" id="xd26e1441" title="Source: lose">loose</span> 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.”</p> -<p>He went back to the center of the ring and again held up his -hands.</p> -<p>“You want that speech?” he shouted in a tremendous -voice.</p> -<p>Hundreds near the ring heard him and cried “Yes!”</p> -<p>“Then let every man who wants to hear shut up the noise-maker -next to him!” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb152" href="#pb152" -name="pb152">152</a>]</span></p> -<p>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 tier of seats near the ring went down. This was -greeted with 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!”</p> -<p>Glendon had the Celt’s 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. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb153" href="#pb153" -name="pb153">153</a>]</span>For thirty 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:</p> -<p>“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 forty-five-round contest. Let me tell you -that it will be nearer forty-five seconds.</p> -<p>“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. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb154" href="#pb154" name= -"pb154">154</a>]</span>Why are the seats falling down to-night? Graft. -Like the fight game, they were built on business principles.”</p> -<p>He now held the audience stronger than ever, and knew it.</p> -<p>“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.</p> -<p>“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 business men. The fighters are only fighters. They -begin <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb155" href="#pb155" name= -"pb155">155</a>]</span>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.”</p> -<p>Here the uproar began to drown his voice.</p> -<p>“Let every man who wants to hear shut up the man alongside of -him!” Glendon instructed.</p> -<p>Again, like the murmur of a surf, there was a rustling of smacks, -and thuds, and scuffles, and the house quieted down.</p> -<p>“Why does every fighter work overtime insisting that -he’s always fought square? Why are they called Honest Johns, and -Honest Bills, and Honest <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb156" href= -"#pb156" name="pb156">156</a>]</span>Blacksmiths, and all the rest? -Doesn’t it ever strike you that they seem to be afraid of -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.</p> -<p>“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 business men.</p> -<p>“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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb157" href="#pb157" -name="pb157">157</a>]</span>Tom. Harry licks Dick. Nothing proved. Then -come the return matches. Harry licks Tom. Tom licks Dick. 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.</p> -<p>“It’s 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—”</p> -<p>A wild outburst compelled him to stop. Out of the medley of cries -from all over the house, he could distinguish such as <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb158" href="#pb158" name= -"pb158">158</a>]</span>“What million dollars?” “What -three fights?” “Tell us!” “Go on!” -Likewise there were boos and hisses, and cries of “Muckraker! -Muckraker!”</p> -<p>“Do you want to hear?” Glendon shouted. “Then keep -order!”</p> -<p>Once more he compelled the impressive half minute of silence.</p> -<p>“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 give in to the program, -they’ll never give me a chance to fight him. 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 side bet of -twenty thousand. It will be <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb159" href= -"#pb159" name="pb159">159</a>]</span>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 evenly, though the public division -will be thirty-five and sixty-five. The purse, the moving picture -royalties, the advertisements, and all the rest of the drags -won’t be a cent less than two hundred and fifty thousand. -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 -to-night—”</p> -<p>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: <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb160" href="#pb160" name= -"pb160">160</a>]</span></p> -<p>“It’s a lie!”</p> -<p>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.</p> -<p>Hanford was dead in the air—in so far 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 <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb161" href="#pb161" name="pb161">161</a>]</span>the -ropes and down out of the ring upon the heads of the men in the press -seats.</p> -<p>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 night in fistiana. Glendon looked ruefully at his -damaged knuckles, cast a glance through the ropes to where Hanford was -groggily coming to, and held up his hands. He had clinched his right to -be heard, and the audience grew still.</p> -<p>“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 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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb162" href="#pb162" -name="pb162">162</a>]</span>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.</p> -<p>“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 -sixteenth. That last punch in the sixteenth didn’t shake him. But -he <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb163" href="#pb163" name= -"pb163">163</a>]</span>faked the knock-out just the same and fooled all -of you.”</p> -<p>“How about to-night?” a voice called out. “Is it a -frame-up?”</p> -<p>“It is,” was Glendon’s answer. “How’s -the syndicate betting? That Cannam will last to the -fourteenth.”</p> -<p>Howls and hoots went up. For the last time Glendon held up his hand -for silence.</p> -<p>“I’m almost done now. But I want to tell you one thing. -The syndicate gets landed to-night. This is to be a square fight. Tom -Cannam won’t last till the fourteenth round. He won’t last -the first round.”</p> -<p>Cannam sprang to his feet in his corner and cried out in a fury:</p> -<p>“You can’t do it. The man don’t live who can get -me in one round!”</p> -<p>Glendon ignored him and went on.</p> -<p>“Once now in my life I have struck <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb164" href="#pb164" name="pb164">164</a>]</span>with -all my strength. You saw that a moment ago when I caught Hanford. -To-night, for the second time, I am going to hit with all my -strength—that is, if Cannam doesn’t jump through the ropes -right now and get away. And now I’m ready.”</p> -<p>He went to his corner and held out his hands for his gloves. In the -opposite corner Cannam raged while his seconds tried vainly to calm -him. At last Billy Morgan managed to make the final announcement.</p> -<p>“This will be a forty-five round contest,” he shouted. -“Marquis of Queensbury Rules! And may the best man win! Let her -go!”</p> -<p>The gong struck. The two men advanced. Glendon’s right hand -was extended for the customary shake, but Cannam, with an angry toss of -the head, refused to take it. To the general surprise, <span class= -"pagenum">[<a id="pb165" href="#pb165" name="pb165">165</a>]</span>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. Cannam grinned defiantly, -but declined to take advantage of the proffered opening.</p> -<p>Two minutes passed, and then a 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 Cannam, <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb166" -href="#pb166" name="pb166">166</a>]</span>who redoubled his caution. -Glendon quickly worked him into a corner and herded and held him there. -Still he struck no blow, nor attempted to strike, and the suspense on -Cannam’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.</p> -<p>Then it came—a swift series of simple feints that were muscle -flashes. Cannam was dazzled. So was the audience. No two of the -onlookers could agree afterward as to what took place. Cannam ducked -one feint and at the same time threw up his face guard to meet another -feint for his jaw. He also attempted to change position with his legs. -Ring-side witnesses swore that they saw Glendon start the blow from his -right hip and leap forward like a tiger to add the weight of his body -to it. Be that as it may, the <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb167" -href="#pb167" name="pb167">167</a>]</span>blow caught Cannam 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.</p> -<p>Of what happened afterward that night in the Golden Gate Arena, -columns in the newspapers were unable adequately to describe. The -police 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 over-turned. 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, -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb168" href="#pb168" name= -"pb168">168</a>]</span>earned him this mercy. Outside, when finally -driven from the building, the crowd fell upon a new -seven-thousand-dollar motor car belonging to a well-known fight -promoter and reduced it to scrapiron and kindling wood.</p> -<p>Glendon, unable to dress amid the wreckage of dressing rooms, gained -his automobile, still in his ring costume and wrapped in a bath robe, -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.</p> -<p>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, Glendon was good-naturedly restrained from escaping. -<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb169" href="#pb169" name= -"pb169">169</a>]</span>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 Maud 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.</p> -<p class="trailer xd26e1573">The End</p> -<p><span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb170" href="#pb170" name= -"pb170">170</a>]</span></p> -</div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="back"> -<div class="div1 advertisements"><span class="pagenum">[<a href= -"#toc">Contents</a>]</span> -<div class="divBody"> -<p class="first xd26e1578">Other Great Books by Jack London</p> -<p class="xd26e1580">Smoke Bellew</p> -<p>The sting of real appetite, the goodly ache of fatigue, the rush of -mad, strong blood that bites like wine through all one’s body as -work is done, love and comradeship such as the world of civilization -seldom knows—all these are vividly portrayed in this splendid -tale of adventure and love in the Klondike.</p> -<p class="xd26e109"><i>Eight full-page illustrations by Monahan.<br> -Price $1.30 net, postage 13 cents.</i></p> -<p class="xd26e1580">The Night-Born</p> -<p>A woman good to look upon, if unlettered, of clean but sordid life, -set free from the pots and kettles of a Juneau kitchen by chance -reading of Thoreau’s “Cry of the Human”—a woman -who finds her freedom and her joy queening a tribe of wild Indians and -several thousand square miles of Arctic hunting territory—this is -the heroine Jack London creates for the story which opens this -collection of short tales. Jack London is at his splendid best perhaps -when his people and his scenes are set in the far north; but here are -some of his more notable short stories, with widely varied settings and -character, but with a touch of “the night-born” wildness in -all.</p> -<p class="xd26e109">Frontispiece in color. Price $1.25 net, postage -extra.</p> -<p class="xd26e1596">At all book-stores. Published by</p> -<p class="xd26e1578">THE CENTURY CO.</p> -</div> -</div> -<div class="div1" id="toc"> -<h2 class="main">Table of Contents</h2> -<table> -<tr> -<td class="tocDivNum">I.</td> -<td class="tocDivTitle" colspan="8"><a href="#ch1">I</a></td> -<td class="tocPageNum"><a class="pageref" href="#ch1">3</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tocDivNum">II.</td> -<td class="tocDivTitle" colspan="8"><a href="#ch2">II</a></td> -<td class="tocPageNum"><a class="pageref" href="#ch2">11</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tocDivNum">III.</td> -<td class="tocDivTitle" colspan="8"><a href="#ch3">III</a></td> -<td class="tocPageNum"><a class="pageref" href="#ch3">34</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tocDivNum">IV.</td> -<td class="tocDivTitle" colspan="8"><a href="#ch4">IV</a></td> -<td class="tocPageNum"><a class="pageref" href="#ch4">43</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tocDivNum">V.</td> -<td class="tocDivTitle" colspan="8"><a href="#ch5">V</a></td> -<td class="tocPageNum"><a class="pageref" href="#ch5">54</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tocDivNum">VI.</td> -<td class="tocDivTitle" colspan="8"><a href="#ch6">VI</a></td> -<td class="tocPageNum"><a class="pageref" href="#ch6">70</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tocDivNum">VII.</td> -<td class="tocDivTitle" colspan="8"><a href="#ch7">VII</a></td> -<td class="tocPageNum"><a class="pageref" href="#ch7">107</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tocDivNum">VIII.</td> -<td class="tocDivTitle" colspan="8"><a href="#ch8">VIII</a></td> -<td class="tocPageNum"><a class="pageref" href="#ch8">118</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tocDivNum">IX.</td> -<td class="tocDivTitle" colspan="8"><a href="#ch9">IX</a></td> -<td class="tocPageNum"><a class="pageref" href="#ch9">133</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tocDivNum">X.</td> -<td class="tocDivTitle" colspan="8"><a href="#ch10">X</a></td> -<td class="tocPageNum"><a class="pageref" href="#ch10">142</a></td> -</tr> -</table> -</div> -<div class="transcribernote"> -<h2 class="main">Colophon</h2> -<h3 class="main">Availability</h3> -<p class="first">This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no -cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give -it away or re-use it under the terms of the <a class="seclink xd26e50" -title="External link" href="https://www.gutenberg.org/license" rel= -"license">Project Gutenberg License</a> included with this eBook or -online at <a class="seclink xd26e50" title="External link" href= -"https://www.gutenberg.org/" rel="home">www.gutenberg.org</a>.</p> -<p>This eBook is produced by the Online Distributed Proofreading Team -at <a class="exlink xd26e50" title="External link" href= -"http://www.pgdp.net/">www.pgdp.net</a>.</p> -<p>Scans are available from The Internet Archive (copy <a class= -"seclink xd26e50" title="External link" href= -"https://archive.org/details/abysmalbrute00londrich">1</a>, <a class= -"seclink xd26e50" title="External link" href= -"https://archive.org/details/abysmalbrute00londgoog">2</a>).</p> -<h3 class="main">Metadata</h3> -<table class="colophonMetadata"> -<tr> -<td><b>Title:</b></td> -<td>The Abysmal Brute</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td><b>Author:</b></td> -<td>Jack London (1876–1916)</td> -<td><a href="https://viaf.org/viaf/46764200/" class= -"seclink">Info</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td><b>Illustrator:</b></td> -<td>Gordon Grant (1875–1962)</td> -<td><a href="https://viaf.org/viaf/26258355/" class= -"seclink">Info</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td><b>Language:</b></td> -<td>English</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td><b>Original publication date:</b></td> -<td>1913</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td><b>Keywords:</b></td> -<td>Boxers (Sports)</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td>Boxing stories</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -</table> -<h3>Catalog entries</h3> -<table class="catalogEntries"> -<tr> -<td>Related Library of Congress catalog page:</td> -<td><a href="https://lccn.loc.gov/13011303" class= -"seclink">13011303</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td>Related WorldCat catalog page:</td> -<td><a href="https://www.worldcat.org/oclc/756276912" class= -"seclink">756276912</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td>Related Open Library catalog page (for source):</td> -<td><a href="https://openlibrary.org/books/OL7223981M" class= -"seclink">OL7223981M</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td>Related Open Library catalog page (for work):</td> -<td><a href="https://openlibrary.org/works/OL74475W" class= -"seclink">OL74475W</a></td> -</tr> -</table> -<h3 class="main">Revision History</h3> -<ul> -<li>2017-11-11 Started.</li> -</ul> -<h3 class="main">External References</h3> -<p>This Project Gutenberg eBook contains external references. These -links may not work for you.</p> -<h3 class="main">Corrections</h3> -<p>The following corrections have been applied to the text:</p> -<table class="correctiontable" summary= -"Overview of corrections applied to the text."> -<tr> -<th>Page</th> -<th>Source</th> -<th>Correction</th> -<th>Edit distance</th> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd26e316">24</a></td> -<td class="width40 bottom">[<i>Not in source</i>]</td> -<td class="width40 bottom">.</td> -<td class="bottom">1</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd26e345">26</a></td> -<td class="width40 bottom">Young</td> -<td class="width40 bottom">young</td> -<td class="bottom">1</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd26e1089">114</a></td> -<td class="width40 bottom">snydicate</td> -<td class="width40 bottom">syndicate</td> -<td class="bottom">2</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd26e1309">136</a></td> -<td class="width40 bottom">he</td> -<td class="width40 bottom">she</td> -<td class="bottom">1</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd26e1418">149</a></td> -<td class="width40 bottom">hopeles</td> -<td class="width40 bottom">hopeless</td> -<td class="bottom">1</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd26e1441">151</a></td> -<td class="width40 bottom">lose</td> -<td class="width40 bottom">loose</td> -<td class="bottom">1</td> -</tr> -</table> -</div> -</div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Abysmal Brute, by Jack London - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ABYSMAL BRUTE *** - -***** This file should be named 55948-h.htm or 55948-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/9/4/55948/ - -Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project -Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously -made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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