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The Iron Man The Iron Man The Iron Man The Iron Man Chapter I A CANNON-BALL for a left and a thunderbolt for a right! A granite jaw, and chilled steel body! The ferocity of a tiger, and the greatest fighting heart that ever beat in an iron- ribbed breast! That was Mike Brennon, heavyweight contender. Long before the sports writers ever heard the name of Brennon, I sat in the “athletic tent” of a carnival performing in a small Nevada town, grinning at the antics of the barker, who was volubly offering fifty dollars to anyone who could stay four rounds with “Young Firpo, the California Assassin, champeen of Los Angeles and the East Indies!” Young Firpo, a huge hairy fellow, with the bulging muscles of a weight-lifter and whose real name was doubtless Leary, stood by with a bored and contemptuous expression on his heavy features. This was an old game to him. “Now, friends,” shouted the spieler, “is they any young man here what wants to risk his life in this here ring? Remember, the management ain't responsible for life or limb! But if anybody'll git in here at his own risk--” I saw a rough-looking fellow start up--one of the usual “plants” secretly connected with the show, of course--but at that moment the crowd set up a yell, “Brennon! Brennon! Go on, Mike!” At last a young fellow rose from his seat, and with an embarrassed grin, vaulted over the ropes. The “plant” hesitated--Young Firpo
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