In the ninth inning the score was a tie, with two men on bases for the home team and one out. Naturally the excitement was intense—for this game was for blood money and the Afro-American championship of the county. The umpire, a small, dapper man, a barber by profession and naturally mild-mannered, was filled with regret that the opportunity for prominence had lured him into taking this job. He had a sincere conviction that, no matter what decision he made next, somebody would feel aggrieved.
The manager of the side at bat sent in, as an emergency hitter, a large, broad-shouldered person with a reputation for being very touchy on matters affecting his personal interests or his personal honor. As this individual moistened the bat after the approved manner he cast a glowering look upon the umpire who crouched back of the catcher.
“Jedge ’em an’ jedge ’em right, lil’ nigger,” he growled, “else six of yore friends ’ll be wearin’ w’ite gloves ’bout dis time day after to-mor’.”
The pitcher wound up and sped the ball across.
“Strike one!” shrilled the umpire.
As the batter turned his head to scowl at the referee the pitcher shot another across—a perfect one, waist high and right over the center of the plate. Plunk! it landed in the catcher’s mitt.
“Two!” chanted the umpire.
The big darky dropped his bat. He fixed both brawny hands on the throat of the umpire and squeezed hard. There was murder in his eyes.
“Two whut?” he demanded as though he could not believe his outraged ears.
“Too high fur a strike!” quavered the umpire with magnificent presence of mind. “Yas, suh, entirely too high fur a strike.”