they will bump up against his trousers and cut themselves.
He is one of the kind of umpires who can go through a game on the hottest
summer day, running about the bases, and still keep his collar unwilted.
At the end he will look as if he were dressed for an afternoon tea.

Always he wears on his right hand, which is his salary or decision wing, a
large diamond that sparkles in the sunlight every time he calls a man
out. Many American League players assert that he would rather call a man
out than safe, so that he can shimmer his "cracked ice," but again they
are usually influenced by circumstances. Such is "Silk," well named.

Corresponding to him in the National League is "Billy" Klem. He always
wears a Norfolk jacket because he thinks it more stylish, and perhaps it
is, and he refuses to don a wind pad. Ever notice him working behind the
bat? But I am going to let you in on a secret. That chest is not all his
own. Beneath his jacket he carries his armor, a protector, and under his
trousers' legs are shin guards. He insists that all players call him "Mr."
He says that he thinks maybe soon his name will be in the social register.

"Larry" Doyle thought that he had received the raw end of a decision at
second base one day. He ran down to first, where Klem had retreated after
he passed his judgment.

"Say, 'Bill,'" exploded "Larry," "that man didn't touch the bag--didn't
come within six feet of it."

"Say, Doyle," replied Klem, "when you talk to me call me 'Mr. Klem.'"

"But, Mr. Klem--" amended "Larry."

Klem hurriedly drew a line with his foot as Doyle approached him
menacingly.

"But if you come over that line, you're out of the game, Mr. Doyle," he
threatened.

"All right," answered "Larry," letting his pugilistic attitude evaporate
before the abruptness of Klem as the mist does before the classic noonday
sun, "but, Mr. Klem, I only wanted to ask you if that clock in centre
field is right by your watch, because I know everything about you is
right."

"Larry" went back, grinning and considering that he had put one over on
Klem--Mr. Klem.

For a long time "Johnny" Evers of the Chicago club declared that Klem owed
him $5 on a bet he had lost to the second baseman and had neglected to
pay. Now John, when he was right, could make almost any umpirical goat
leap from crag to crag and do somersaults en route. He kept pestering Klem
about that measly $5 bet, not in an obtrusive way, you understand, but by
such del