The Abysmal Brute | Page 7

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 début 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