The Abysmal Brute | Page 9

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 posession 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 , thought 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 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