As the door leading from the major’s office opened slightly, the boy hurried to his chair and sat down, attempting to appear indifferent to whatever tidings Elinor might bring.
Entering the room, Elinor walked to her desk without speaking. Not the least bit blind to Lefty’s sham indifference, she was tempted to prolong his anxiety by withholding the happy information.
A minute or so went by and the boy, no longer able to retain his assumed composure, jumped from his chair and darted across the room to where Elinor sat.
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” he pleaded. “Tell me that I failed so that I can get over with it as quickly as possible.”
The boy’s words completely took her off guard. Her eyes looked up into his anxious face as her mouth slowly parted.
She would have loved to reach up and take this great big, clumsy boy in her arms and mother him but her better judgment prevailed. Transfixing her eyes to the health card, she said, somewhat absently, “You are to report for instruction immediately!”
Lefty was so overcome with joy that he found it impossible to speak. With a great display of effort, he collected himself and managed to say: “You mean—you mean I passed? Gee, that’s great—and thanks a million, sister!”
Elinor did not venture to reply but proceeded to place the official stamp on Lefty’s physical report card, going through the regular routine course of the service in a trained, mechanical fashion as the boy now centered his attention upon a large likeness of Lindbergh that hung in a gilt-edged frame over her desk.
“Great fellow, isn’t he?” Lefty said, his eyes still transfixed upon the portrait of the national idol.
Elinor smiled as she held out the card for Lefty, replying in an encouraging and ambiguous manner, “Yes, and he started just like this!”