The Abysmal Brute | Page 5

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
muscle 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 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 a moment he thought his neck was