n them,
and he dropped two flies in left field.

"Look here, Josh," warned McGraw after the game, "I hire you to play ball
and not to lead cotillions. Get some pumice stone and rub it on your
finger-nails and cut out those John Drew manicures after this."

This crowd is worse after umpires than the residents of the bleachers. The
game on that Saturday worked out into a pitchers' battle between Marty
O'Toole, the expensive exponent of the spit ball, and "Rube" Marquard, the
great left-hander. Half of "Who's Who in Pittsburg" had already split
white gloves applauding when, along about the fourth or fifth inning, Fred
Clarke got as far as third base with one out. The score was nothing for
either side as yet, and of such a delicate nature was the contest that one
run was likely to decide it.

"Hans" Wagner, the peerless, and the pride of Pittsburg, was at the bat.
He pushed a long fly to Murray in right field, and John caught it and
threw the ball home. Clarke and the ball arrived almost simultaneously.
There was a slide, a jumble of players, and a small cloud of dust blew
away from the home plate.

"Ye're out!" bawled Mr. Brennan, the umpire, jerking his thumb over his
shoulder with a conclusiveness that forbade argument. Clarke jumped up and
stretched his hands four feet apart, for he recognizes no conclusiveness
when "one is called against him."

"Safe! that much!" he shouted in Brennan's ear, showing him the four-foot
margin with his hands.

There was a roar from the diamond horse-shoe that, if it could have been
canned and put on a phonograph, would have made any one his fortune
because it could have been turned on to accompany moving pictures of lions
and other wild beasts to make them realistic.

"Say," said Clarke to Brennan, "I know a pickpocket who looks honest
compared to you, and I'd rather trust my watch to a second-story worker."

Brennan was dusting off the plate and paid no attention to him. But Clarke
continued to snap and bark at the umpire as he brushed himself off,
referring with feeling to Mr. Brennan's immediate family, and weaving into
his talk a sketch of the umpire's ancestors, for Clarke is a great master
of the English language as fed to umpires.

"Mr. Clarke," said Brennan, turning at last, "you were out. Now beat it to
the bench before you beat it to the clubhouse."

Clarke went grumbling and all the afternoon was after Brennan for the
decision, his wrath increasing because the Pirate