Part 3 (1/2)

”Why?” she asked in puzzled tone. ”There is not an Irish boy here. You are Italians, and Spanish, and Jewish, and Russian, so why call it Irish-American?”

”My stepfather is an Irishman, his name is Mike O'Malley,” said a small Mexican. ”So I'll be the captain.”

”G'wan, ain't it enough to get the club named for you?” came the angry retort. ”What you know about baseball, anyhow?”

Eveley silenced them quickly. ”Let's just call it the American League,”

she pleaded.

”The Irish-American League is well known, and gets its name in the paper,” was the ready argument in its favor.

And this fact, together with the strong appeal the words had made to their sense of dignity, proved irresistible. They refused to give it up.

And when Eveley tried to reason with them, they told her slyly that the proper way to decide was by putting it to vote.

Eveley swallowed hard, but conscientiously admitted the justice of this, and put the question to vote. And as the club was unanimously in favor of it, and only Eveley was opposed, her Americanization baseball club of Italians and Mexicans and Orientals went down into history as the Irish-American League.

When it came to voting for officers, she again met with scant success.

They flatly refused to have a president, stating that a captain could do all the bossing necessary, and that baseball clubs always had a captain.

In the vote that followed the result was curiously impartial. Every boy in the club voted for himself. Eveley, who had been won by the bright face of a young Jewish boy sitting near her with keen eyes intent upon her, voted for him, which gave him a fifty per cent. majority over the nearest compet.i.tor, and Eveley declared him the captain.

A few moments later, Eveley was called away to the telephone by Nolan, wis.h.i.+ng to know what time he should call for her and the moment she was out of hearing, the club went into noisy conference. Upon her return, the argumentative Russian announced that the vote had been changed, and he was unanimously elected captain.

”But how did that happen?” Eveley demanded doubtfully. ”Did the rest of you change your votes, and decide he should be captain?”

There was a rustle of hesitation, almost a dissenting murmur.

The newly elected captain lowered his brows ominously. ”You did, didn't you?” he asked, glaring around on his fellow members.

”Yes,” came feebly though unanimously.

”Did--did you vote?” questioned Eveley tremulously.

”Sure, we voted,” said the captain amiably. ”We decided that I know the game better than the rest of the guys, and I can lick any kid in this gang with one hand, and we decided that I ought to be the captain. Ain't that right?” Again he turned lowering brows on the Irish-American League.

No denial was forthcoming, and although Eveley felt a.s.sured that in some way the American ideal of popular selection had been violently outraged, it seemed the part of policy to overlook what might have occurred. Some minor rules were agreed upon, and the club decided to meet for practise every evening after school. Eveley could not attend except on Sat.u.r.days, and a boy near her, whose features had seemed vaguely and bewilderingly familiar, announced that he must withdraw as he worked and had no time for baseball. The captain professed his ability to fill up the club to the required number with exceptional baseball material, and the meeting adjourned without further parley.

This one meeting sufficed unalterably to convince Eveley that she was totally and helplessly out of her element. She was not altogether sure those quick-witted boys needed Americanizing, but she was sure that she was not the one to do it if they did require it. She realized that she had absolutely no idea how to go about instilling principles of freedom and loyalty in the hearts of young foreigners.

It was with great sadness that she began adjusting her hat and collar ready to go home, leaving defeat and failure behind her, when a blithe voice at her elbow broke into her despair.

”So long, Miss Ainsworth; see you in the morning.”

Eveley whirled about and stared into the face of the small lad whose features had seemed so curiously familiar.

”To-morrow?” she repeated.

”Surest thing you know, at the office,” he said, grinning impishly at her evident inability to place him. ”I knew all the time you didn't know me.

I am Angelo Moreno, the Number Three elevator boy at the Rollo Building.”