The Abysmal Brute

The Abysmal Brute
by Jack London
Published as a book by The Century Company (May 1913)
First Published in Popular Magazine, 1911
Copyright, 1911, by Street and Smith, New York
CHAPTER I
SAM STUBENER ran through his mail carelessly and rapidly. As
became a manager of prize-fighters, he was accustomed to a various
and bizarre correspondence. Every crank, sport, near sport, and
reformer seemed to have ideas to impart to him. From dire 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-dollar
offers of irresponsible nobodies, 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, cur 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 post office 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 you, from the time Kal Aufman knocked you
out to 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. I 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 two hundred and twenty 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 trained him. All that I 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 need to think about it at all. His
six-inch jolt is more the real sleep medicine 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 you was crazy about hunting.
Come along and I'll give you some real hunting and fishing that will
make your movie picture winnings look like thirty cents. I'll send
Young Pat out with you. I ain't able to get around. That's why I'm
sending for you. I was going to manage him myself. But it ain't no use.
I'm all in and likely to pass out any time. So get a move on. I want you
to manage him. There's a fortune in it for both of you, but I want to
draw up the contract.
Yours truly, PAT GLENDON
Stubener was puzzled. It seemed, on the face of it, a joke--the men in
the fighting game were notorious jokers--and he tried to discern the fine
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 Queensbury

Rules.
What ring-follower did not know of Pat Glendon?--though few were
alive who had seen him in his prime, and there were not many more
who had seen him at all. Yet his 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 he all but won the heavyweight championship, and each
time he had deserved to win