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man, who was witnessing his second game of baseball, paid more attenton to Muggsy" McGraw on the bench than to the game itself. He remarked to his friend that the little fellow on the bench was extremely nervous. This is about what he saw: A New York runner was on first base and a poor hitter was at bat. "Muggsy" wiped his brow with his 'kerchief two or three times-plainly an indication of nervousness. The man at bat bunted the ball and the runner at first safely landed on second. That brow-wiping was a signal for a bunt. The next man at bat was a good batsman. The fielders dropped back for a long fly, but after "Muggsy" crossed his legs once or twice -another indication of nervousness-the heavy batter also bunted, beating the ball to first, and sending the other runner to third. These tactics evidently disconcerted the other team, and " Muggsy" signaled the next batter-the champion slugger of the team-to take a chance and wait until two strikes had been called on him. The signal came from "Muggsy's" going to the tank to get a drink of water, The

pitcher, as "Muggsy" had figured, was conversant with the signal, and it was his intention to heave the first two balls squarely over the plate. While he ground the ball on his hip, ball on his hip, "Muggsy" coughed or sneezed, and the batter hit the first ball a vicious crack, making a three-bagger, and scoring the runners ahead of him. The Englishman thought "Muggsy" was nerv

ous.

His

Any person who has even the merest suggestion of tenderness in his soul cannot do otherwise than hand out his heart to the umpire, variously called burglar, highway robber, thief, vampire, and other pet names. He earns not only his salt, but the most valuable salt mines on earth. salary, of course, is somewhat soothing, but it could not be under any condition commensurate with what is justly due him. In a closely contested game, when the home team is a run or so behind, with excellent prospects of scoring a victory, he is to be pitied if his decisions kill the chances of winning. Some of the umpires have been in the game long enough to drink in the noise from the bleachers-threats to

murder on the spot or immediately after the game, and other pleasant things-as sweet music to the ear. He expects it, and he is not disappointed. One of the patriarchs of the indicator once said that if he were an impresario in search of undeveloped talent he would visit a ball game. He has heard voices from the bleachers which he says would make Plançon's and Caruso's appear like whispers in the matter of volume. The umpire, without doubt, is the most cussed, most berated, most loved, most hated being claiming American citizenship.

But he simply is a part and parcel of the

great game of baseball-just as the "Rube" Waddell, the bleacher boys, the grandmother, the boss, and the rest of the nation. There have been dire predictions that baseball eventually will die out. Maybe so, but when baseball ceases to exist, the reins of government will be snapped asunder, and the millennium will be at hand. Baseball is as strongly established as is the government at Washington, as strongly rooted in American affection as is a mother's love to her baby. Baseball may have its off years, but so do the Republicans.

Baseball in all its simplicity, in all its intricacies, is here to stay.

HE Juvenile picked up the large cliff from the top of which the Leading Man was accustomed to dash the Heavy down to certain death upon an excelsior mattress at least five feet below, and, moving it over to where the Ingénue sat sewing buttons on a peekaboo shirtwaist, placed it beside her and composed himself upon its serrated apex.

"This is what we get," he muttered, disconsolately, "for playing one-night stands and miniature hamlets with a blooming répertoire show. Only half salary this week, because it's Holy Week-and judging by the towns ahead, the next week'll bring no salary at all, but, instead, the show will close; and then the long hike back to Broadway. It's hell, that's what it is!"

The Ingénue nodded, slowly. "I'm tired of it," she said, wearily. "So tired of it all. It isn't living. It's barely existing. Once I was like the leading woman, and the leading man, and the rest of them. I thought I was a genius. But now-" She stopped, eyes gazing into the dense, dirty gloom of the stage.

"We all have those dreams," returned the Juvenile. "I've had 'em myself, lots of times. It's the 'mash' notes and the applause, and the lights, and being a mote in the public eye that give 'em to you. The audiences fool you, and you fool yourself, into the belief that you're an Irving or a Bernhardt. But by and by you wake up -if you have any sense. If you haven't, you go right on being fooled until the Actors' Fund buys you a box and puts you into the only place where managers have no voice. I waked up long ago."

The Ingénue nodded again.

The Ingénue smiled up at him, wearily. "I'm ready," she said, simply. "I've been ready for a year, and I never want to see any of it again, never."

"And you won't," he cried, and positively. "You can be sure of that. I had another letter from that chap who's got that mining property out in Nevada, offering me twenty a week to bookkeep for him. Don't you think I might go out there alone and make a place for you to come to?"

She shook her head. "It's bad enough. with you here," she said. " No, boy. We'll go together."

"And just as everything was all fixed, and carfare almost accumulated, along comes this half-salary week and splits my twenty-five to twelve fifty and your twenty to ten-and it'll eat up the best part of our savings to settle up here, so that we can crawl to the next town that Man put on the map and Nature refuses to have anything to do with."

The Ingénue laid the peekaboo shirtwaist across her knee.

"If the gross receipts for the week are a thousand dollars or over," she said, with forced hopefulness, "we'll get our full salaries, you know, dear."

He shook his head.

"No such luck," he cried. "A thousand? Huh! If they should take in all that money the management would die of heart failure and we'd close anyway. And I had it all fixed with the manager-he's a good sort, you know-to let us off without notice; he'd put on the shows he could understudy us in, you know.'

The Ingénue laid her hand upon his arm gently.

"Never mind," she said, softly. "It'll all come right some day-some day. Some day we'll live where the light is of the sun instead of the footlights, where the air is pure instead of musty, where people and things are clean instead of dirty. We'll live-some day."

The Juvenile sat up, suddenly.

"I don't come on until the second act," he said. "I'll go around to the front of the house and see how business is. I know the box-office man. He's a decent chap. Maybe he'll tell me how they stand-how close to the thousand we're running."

The Ingénue nodded. "Do," she said. He bent over and kissed her.

"I'll try to buck up, little girl," he said, "and think of the some day instead of the now," and he turned and walked out through the dirty stage entrance, into the dark alley, and around into the glare of the electric sign.

The Box-Office Man was disposed to be communicative.

"They're comin' fine, ol' hoss," he vouchsafed in response to the Juvenile's anxious query.

"How much on the week?" demanded the Juvenile.

The Box-Office Man studied his sheets for a moment.

stage again. The Ingénue had gone to her dressing room. He hurried up the rickety flights and along the dirty corridor to her door.

"Nine hundred and sixty dollars on the week," he reported.

There was a little cry from within the room and the door was flung open; she stood before him, a powder puff in her hand, putting the finishing touches on her first-act make-up.

"Good!" she exclaimed. And are they still coming?"

He shook his head heavily. "Not strong enough," he returned, dismally. “They're early crowds in these rube towns, you know." He shook his head again. "We'll lose by a neck, I'm afraid. I'm trying to brace up, dear, but I could bite chunks out of the proscenium arch if I'd let myself." He gazed at her in ill-controlled, impotent disappointment and chagrin.

The Ingénue was standing motionless, her pretty brows creased with thought. "Jack!" she cried suddenly.

"Well?"

The Juvenile grabbed her hand and shook it with frenzy.

Great!" he cried. "Immense! An inspiration!"

"It would be honest to do that, wouldn't it?" asked the Ingénue, in pretty perplexity.

"Honest enough for me," he returned. Then, suddenly, his jaw dropped. “But where can we get the money?" he asked. "If we had forty dollars, we'd have been gone long ago."

Can't you collect it from the company?" ventured the Ingénue. "Explain to the Leading Man and the Leading Woman and the Low Comedian. They ought to be able to raise thirty dollars. among them; and we can put in ten; and then, when we shall have time, we'll figure it out and divide equally among all the company. Do it. Quick!"

Down to the stage the Juvenile dashed;