The Syracuse Journal, Volume 6, Number 48, Syracuse, Kosciusko County, 26 March 1914 — Page 3

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i i Sfe ;• Abysmal| Brute . •• By JACK LONDON ;• O* * M ♦ • > • » Coyy right, 1913. by The Ceatary C. • ’ ♦ ♦ »4. .)■ ■>■■»»» -J. »»<■♦> terviewing. 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 timed 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. s 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 outrush of her toward this strange man. For was not he the abysmal brute of the prize ring, the great, fighting, stupid bulk of a male animal who hammered up his fellow males of the same stupid order? She smiled at the way he continued to hold her hand. “I’ll have it back, please, Mr. Glen -don,” she said. “I—l really need It you know.” llje looked at her blankly, followed JJer gaze to her Imprisoned hand, and dropped it In a rush of awkwardness that sent the blood in a manifest blush to hls face. She noted the blush, and the thought , to her that he did not seem quite the uncouth brute she bad 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 jlibness to murmur <yi apology Bnt the way he devoured her with hls 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 bis. “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. Hls 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 ... —V 7uv’7 I A •I’ll have it back, please, Mr. Glendon,” she said. ' eald. “I never interviewed a pugilist before, so if I don’t go about it expertly you’ll forgive me, lam 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 _ |

! JT She studied’hls fiße coutiteSance, the eyes clear blue and wide apart, the well modeled, almost aquiline, nose, the flrm, chaste lips that were sw-eet tn 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 iri vain she attempted to establish contacts. For one thing, she knew too little about prizefighters 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 IL Tell me, why do you fight? Oh, aside from money reasons." (This latter to forestall Stubener.) “Do you enjoy fighting? Are you stirred by IL by pitting yowrself 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 knockout route.” “And it’s this certainty of the outcome that robs it of what I imagine must be Its finest thrills,” Pat concluded. “Maybe you’ll get some of them thrills when you go up against Jim Hanford,” said the manager. Pat smiled, but did not speak. "Tell me some more,” she urged—“more about the way you feel when you are fighting.” And then Pat amazed hls 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. x “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 hls 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 rho wed that she was bored. Her eyes chanced to reef on the sonnets. She picked the book up and glanced in qulringly 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.” CHAPTER VII. 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! Os 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 1 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, 1 find it hard to understand how you can be a party to euch cheating. I can understand your liking the sport for a sport as well as for the money it brings you, but I 1 can’t understand”— I “fere’s nothing to understand,” Stubener broke in, while Pat’s lips werti breathed 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 flow let me.tell you about how I discovered Mr. Glendon. It was A letter I got from his father”— 1 But Maud Sangster refused to be sidetracked, and addressed herself to Pat “Listen. I remember one case particularly. It was some fight that took place several months ago—l forget the contestants. One of the. editors of the Courier-Journal told me he intended to make a good winning. He didn’t | hone; he said, help tended. Harald, he

was on the inside arid 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 lie 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. 1 was not interested in prizefighting then. But lam 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 tight,” 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 to gether to answer. “That’s the very point Mfen 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 taking and fixing in the fight game is—is nonexistent.” “What Is your opinion. Mr Glendon?’’ shj» asked. “Tljf"* Isame as mine." Stubener snatched the answer. “He knows what 1 say is true, every word of it. He’s never fought anything but a straight fight in iiis life, isn’t that i right. Pat?” I z “Yes, it’s right” Pat affirmed; and 1 the peculiar thing to Maud Sangster ! was that she was convinced he spoke I tlie truth. She brushed her forehead with her hand, as if to rid herself of the bepuz- , zlement that clouded her brain. “Listen,” she said. “Last night the i same editor told me that your forthcoming fight was arranged to the very i 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 ! bootaed 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!” be 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 hls 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 rhe 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 I 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 I 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. i “Well?” she asked. I He got up and towered above her, then sat down again, moistening hls lips with his tongue. j “I’ll tell you one thing,” he finally said. “The fight won’t end in the sixteenth round.” She did not speak, but her uncon- ; vlnced and quizzical smile hurt him. i “You wait and see, Miss Sangster, 1 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 fall to see the difference in what number the final round occurs so long as it is predetermined and known.” I “I’ll tell you that round, and not I 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, 1 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 1 angry with your manager? Why did you send Jxim, froQi the room?” - (To be continued—) Teeth filled, crowned and extracted absolutely without pain. Dr. Cunningham, Goshen. -

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