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 Pirates lost the game finally, although they would not have won it had they been given that decision. And the crowd was roaring at Brennan, too, throughout the remainder of the contest, asking him pointed questions about his habits and what his regular business was.
It takes a man with nerve to make a decision like that—one that could be called either way because it was so close—and to make it as he sees it, which happened in this particular case to be against the home team.