The next thing Dr. Jones knew was when a shaft of bright morning sunlight fell upon his face, and, drowsily, he heard a faint, weak female voice saying: “Nine-thousand-seven-hundred and one, nine-thousand-seven-hundred and two——!” § 227 The Plan of the Shut-In A gentleman who resided in the heart of the Corn Belt paid his first visit to Chicago. With him came two friends. The three of them occupied one large room in a Loop hotel. On the second day of sight-seeing the Corn Belter’s feet gave out on him. Leaving his companions to finish out the evening at a theatre, he returned to the hotel and went to bed. When the other two arrived, shortly before midnight, they found the door of their room locked. They pounded on the panels until the sleeper awakened. “Let us in, Zach!” said one of them impatiently. “Let yourself in,” he answered. “The key is outside there in the hall.” “How does it come to be outside when you’re inside?” demanded one of them. “Oh, after I got undressed I throwed it over the transom so’s you fellers could git in without no trouble. It must be layin’ on the floor.” They found the key and admitted themselves. As they entered one of them asked: “Say, Zach, what would you have done, locked in here this way, if there’d been a fire?” “Why, I wouldn’t have went.” § 228 The Quick-Thinking Referee 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.