The Syracuse Journal, Volume 6, Number 34, Syracuse, Kosciusko County, 18 December 1913 — Page 3

=JACK LONDON, AUTHOR OF= The Abysmal Brute

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I I i Abysmal i Brute | «» * * t :: By JACK LONDON 1 o* * i «» A « > Coyyrijht, 1913, by The Century .Co. S 4-r 4 PROLOGUE. Few authors living today have the force and directness, the rugged strength and vitality of style of Jack London. This new novel is one of his best.' It is a story of the prize ring, a real man’s story, big and vigorous and thrilling. Behind the tense life, the excitement of the fight itself, one can see in reading it the crookedness, the devious ways of the keen wilted men who stage the big fight and reap the profits. More than this, one can see into the soul of the Abysmal Brute himself, one of the strangest, most human and fascinating characters London has ever drawn, a bruiser who is a scholar as well, who is honest and clean and innocent up to the moment of his disillusionment —a veritable cross section of a strange phase of American life. ______ CHAPTER I.

j AM STUBENER ran through his mail carelessly and rapidly. As | became a manager of prize fighters, he was accustomed to

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a various and bizarre correspondence. Every crank, sport, near sport and re former 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 horseshoes, from dinky jerkwater bids to the quarter of a million offers of Irresponsible nobodles, 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 postoffice 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 Kai Aufman knocked you out of 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. 1 got the greatest unknown that ever happened. This ain’t con. It’s the straight goods. What do you think of a husky that tips the scales at 220 pounds fighting weight, is 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 1 trained him. All that 1 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. .Hl, six tach jolt is more the real sleep 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 vou Was crazy about hunting. Come along and I’ll give you some rest hunting and fishing that will make vow moving picture winnings look like 30 cents. I’ll send Young Pat out with you. 1 ain't able to get around. That’s why I’m sending for you. 1 was going to manage him myself, but It ain’t no use. I'm all tn and likely to pass out any time So get a move on. I Want you to manage him. There’s a for-< tune in it for both of you. but 1 want ta traw up the contract Yours trulv, Vat glendon. Stnbener was puzzled It seemed, on the face of it, a joke—the men tn the fighting game were notorious- jokers—and he tried to discern the tint 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 Queensberry rules. What ring follower did not know ol Pat Glendon?—though few were alive who had seen him in his prime, and there were not many more who bad seen him at all. Yet bis 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 be 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 championship 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 downtown with him. “What’s become of Pat Glendon?” Such was his greeting to all sports that morning. Nobody seemed to know. Some thought be 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 clew. “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 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 ’T was all of twenty years and more ago. His wife had just died. I met him headin’ for the ferry. ‘Where away, old sport?’ says L ‘lt’s

% Life among two fisted men je Jack London’s text, and he sticks to it. He tells of existence and of men as he has found them—from the Bering sea to the south sea islands. Ths experiences of his characters have been his own. That is what makes them real men. Add to his contact with life and his capacity of keeping vivid impressions of it a power to make his readers feel with him and you catch hold of the secret of his great power over hia readers. Few living men equal London in “getting down to facts.” He has the ability of making the word fit the scene, of telling a story in a phrase, of revealing a life in« chapter. When you finish a London story you have lived with the characters. They are not men and women of straw, set up to fill out an idle hour. They are living, breathing, feeling, Buffering, triumphant human beings. Jack London is only thirty-eight years old. In twenty years he has crowded more real life than most men do in a long lifetime. He left college to ge to the Klondike, and his farewell to book schools was permanent. Since then he has learned his lessons before the mast, in Japan, seal hunting in the arctic, tramping through the United States and Canada I and as a war correspondent in the Russo-Japanese war. Thousands of men and women have I heard him lecture and have felt as they I heard his strong, sincere voice that | they were listening to a real man 1 among men. In “The Abysmal Brute” he has chs- , sen a novel theme and handled it with j an art that holds the reader’s interest from first word to “finis.” I Xy

Goodby. Tim, me boy.' And I’ve never seen him from that day to this. Os 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 knowln’?” It was then that Sam Stubener ~~- j The Fight Editor Was Able to State That His Death Had Not Been Noted. reached a decision, and that night found him in a Pullman speeding toward the wilds of northern California ■Stubener was dropped off the over land at Deer Lick In the early morning, and he kicked his heels for an hour before the saloon opened its doors. No. the saloon keeper didn’t know anything about Pat Glendon, had never heard of him. and If he was in that part of the country he must be out beyond somewhere. Neither had the one hanger on ever heard of Pat Glendon. At the hotel the same Ignorance obtained. and it was not until the storekeeper and postmaster opened up that Stubener struck the trail. Oh. yes; Pat Glendon lived out beyond. You took the stage at Alpine, a whicb 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 PatS* The storekeeper had seen him. He had been into 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 be 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. v - That night the manager spent at the logging camp of Alpine, and early the following morning be rode a moan tain 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 11 o’clock when he dismounted before a log cabin and was greeted by the baying of two huge deerhounds. Then Pat Glendon opened the door, fell on his neck and took him In. “I knew ye’d come, Sam. me boy," ■aid Pat the while he limped about

Inga bear steak. “TOeyoung un ain't home the night We was gettin’ short of meat and bo went out about sun down to pick up a deer. But I’ll say no more. Walt 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. Pm finished. Eighty-one come next January an’ pretty good for an ex-bruiser. But 1 never wasted meself, Sam, nor kept late hours an* burned the candle at all end*. I bad a dashed 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. ' s, y “JoffriM could *a’ worried the young un a bit.” “Tie’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 out fit 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 bard an' gaspin’ for air. But no more, Sam, me boy. You're tired an’ sure should be sleepin’. Walt 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 thinkß’ strong I ~am that he beHeves 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 over 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 of wild bulls. No city grown man can have a look-in against him. Pm 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 tin 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 < 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.** CHAPTER

GOOD thing; he’s woman shy. They’ll not bother him for years,” continued Old Pat “He can’t bring himself to

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understand the creatures, an’ few of them has he seen at that ’Twas the schoolteacher over at Samson’s Flat that put the poetry stuff In his head. She was clean daffy over the 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 vent 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 1 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 she looked it in her face. An* at the end 9f 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’ been the ruination of many a good fighter, but they won’t be of him. He blushes like a girl if anything young in skirts looks at him a second time or too long on the first one. An’ they all look at him. But when he fights, when he fights! It’s the old savage Irish that flares in him. 4in* drives the fists of him. “Not that he goes off his base. Don’t, walkjwjy with ttut._At mO»t X

was never as cool as ne. 1 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! I made a man o’ him, with the two fists of him. an’ the upstanding legs of him. an’ the straight seein* eyes. And 1 know the game In my bead, an' I’ve kept up with the times and the modern changes. The erouch? “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. Infightln'? Walt till you see. Better than his outfightin’. and be could sure ’a’ spar red 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 moon tain men to try out on. 1 gave him the fancy work and they gave him the sluggin' 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' roughtike In the rushes. An' he plays with 'em. Mau. 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 be don’t take flghtln’ seriously. It's that easy to him he thinks it play. But wait till he’s tapped a swift one. 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 cornin’ up the trail now.” was the hoarse whisper. “Out with ye an’ take your first peep at the biggest figbtin’ 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 bis feet Instead of brogans were moccasins. Stubener noted that his walk was smooth and catlike, without (Suggestion of his 220 pounds of weight to which that of the deer was added. The fight manager was Impressed from the first glimpse. Formidable the young fellow certainly was, but the manager sensed the strangeness and unusualness of him. He was a new type* something different from the run of fighters. He seemed a creature of the wild, more a night roaming figure from some old fairy story or 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 be had picked up the deer. “South fork.” was all be vouchsafed. “Eleven miles across the mountains,” the old man exposited prideful ly to Stubener, “an’ a trail that'd break your heart” R»-onfcfHst consisted of black coffee, ■our dough bread and an immense quantity of bear meat broiled over the coals. Os 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 bad 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 alt 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 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 bad 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 Uhe 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’ lazyllke. Walt till you see them flashin’ like a strikin’ rattler. He's good for forty rounds this blessed instant, or a hundred. Go to It! Timer’ Tbqy went to it. for three minute rounds with a minute rests, and Sam Stubener was ImmedtatelX-JUldfikeived. (To tite ebntinbed—)

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