No denial was forthcoming, and although Eveley felt assured 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 Saturdays, 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.”
“Do—do you know who I am?”
“Sure, you’re Miss Ainsworth, old Jim Hodgin’s private secretary.”
“How long have you been there?”