The first contest of the series was on Saturday afternoon before a crowd that packed the gigantic stands which surrounded Forbes Field. The throng wanted to see the Pirates win because they were the Pirates, and the Giants beaten because they were the Giants, and were sticking their heads up above the other clubs in the race. I always think of the horse show when I play in Pittsburg, for they have the diamond horse-shoe of boxes there, you know. No; I'm wrong--it's at the Metropolitan Opera House they have the diamond horse-shoe. Any way, the diamond horse-shoe of boxes was doing business at Forbes Field that Saturday afternoon. This story is going to be about umpires, but the reader who has never seen the Forbes Field folks must get the atmosphere before I let the yarn into the block. Once, on a bright, sunny day there, I muffed fly after fly because the glint of Sol's rays on the diamonds blinded me. Always now I wear smoked glasses. "Josh" Devore is so afraid that he will lose social caste when he goes to Pittsburg that he gets his finger-nails manicured before he will appear on the field. And the lady who treated him one day polished them to such an ultimate glossiness that the sun flashed on them, and he dropped two flies in left field. "Look here, Josh," warned McGraw after the game, "I hire you to play ball and not to lead cotillions. Get some pumice stone and rub it on your finger-nails and cut out those John Drew manicures after this." 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.