THE MEETING IN THE GRANDSTAND Three games had been insufficient to take the edge from the enthusiasm of the fans, intoxicated with the wine of spring and bubbling with the joy of looking down once more upon that diamond after their long winter deprivation. Moreover, in point of strength there was no comparison between the Blue Stockings and the Terriers. To be sure, the latter had made a hot start this year, but the former were old rivals of the Hornets, who, year after year, had pushed them close in that desperate fight for the pennant, and last season had beaten them out by a hair. Consequently this first struggle between them drew almost as many spectators as the game which had opened the season a week before. The day was perfect. A sweep of blue sky, clear save for a few wispy clouds, was overhead. A trifling little breeze lurked here and there at sharp turns or corners, but it blew from the south, and held no chill undercurrent which was not offset by the warm, grateful sunshine. The fans rejoiced as they sped toward the grounds by every possible car line and conveyance. Those of them who had witnessed the opening game told one another how much better this one was likely to be. Long before one o’clock great throngs had assembled at the gates, and when those gates were finally opened there was a wild rush past ticket-takers into the clattering emptiness of the vast stands. Down over the tiers of seats they stumbled, struggling for the desirable front rows. Hats were smashed here and there, and there were occasional wordy altercations; but, as a rule, laughter and joshing and good-natured horseplay prevailed. By two o’clock, the bleachers were crowded, and the more expensive seats were filling fast. Half an hour later it looked as if every place, save in the reserved sections, was occupied; and still the crowd streamed in like a swollen river. Tramp, tramp, tramp! Regular, rhythmic, the sound of their marching was like the thunder of a great army. Ogden Wilmerding, hurrying toward a coveted place in the lower stand, felt the thrill which that sound brings to the heart of every fan who has hibernated reluctantly for six long months. “Nothing like it,” he chuckled as he was swept along. “This looks a lot like opening day,” he went on, peering over the top of the last row of seats. “I’m not so sorry as I was over getting back too late for that.” He soon saw that it would be impossible to get the seat he wanted. The section directly behind the plate was filled in solid. For a moment he stood there peering down at the reporters’ bench in a vain hope that some one he knew――Jack Stillman, perhaps――might find room for him there. He saw places enough; but neither Stillman nor any other of his newspaper friends had yet appeared. “Hang it all!” he muttered. “Why didn’t I start half an hour earlier, or wire from Boston for a box?”