THE IRISH-AMERICAN LEAGUE
Several days passed quietly. Eveley went serenely about her work, and
from her merry manner one would never have suspected the fires of
Americanization smoldering in her heart ready for any straying breeze of
opportunity to fan them into service.
She was finding it deliciously pleasant to live in a Cloud Cote above a
bride and groom. Mrs. Bride, as Eveley fondly called her, was the dainty,
flowery, fluttery creature that every bride should be. And Mr. Groom was
the soul of devotion and the spirit of tenderness. To the world in
general, they were known as Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Severs, but to Eveley,
they were Mrs. Bride and Mr. Groom. It served to keep their new and
shining matrimonial halo in mind.
She was newly glad every morning that the young husband had to start to
his work before she left home for hers. When she heard the front door
open down-stairs, she ran to her window, often with a roll or her coffee
cup in her hand, to witness the departure, which to her romantic young
eyes was a real event. Mrs. Bride always stood on the porch to watch him
on his way to the car until he was out of sight. Sometimes she ran with
him to the corner, and always before he made the turn he waved her a
final good-by.
It was very peaceful and serene. It seemed hard to believe that recently
there had been a tremendous war, and that even now the world was writhing
in the throes of political and social upheaval and change. In every
country, men and women were grappling with great industrial problems, and
there were ominous rumblings and threatening murmurs from society in
revolution. But in the rambling white house in the great green gardens at
the top of the canyon, one only knew that it was springtime in southern
California, that the world was full of gladness and peace and joy, and
that love was paramount.
Several days,--and then one evening there came the call of the
telephone--the reveille of Americanization in the person of Eveley
Ainsworth. A class of young foreign lads had been gathered and would meet
Eveley at the Service League that evening. No instructions were given, no
suggestions were forthcoming. Eveley had asked for foreigners with whom
she could get chummy and call it love. Here were the foreigners. The rest
of the plan was Eveley's own.
She was proud of her mature comprehension of the needs of reconstruction,
and of her utter gladness to assist. She felt that it signified something
rather fine and worth while in her character, and she took no little
pleasure in the prospect of active service. She went about her work that
day wrapped in a veil of mystery, her mind delving deep into the ideals
of American life. She carefully elaborated several short and spicy
stories, of strong moral and patriotic tone, emphasizing the nobility of
love of country. And that evening she stood before her mirror for a long
time, practising pretty flowery phrases to be spoken with a most winsome
smile. Remembering that her subjects were boys, and that boys are young
men in the making, she donned her daintiest, shimmeriest gown, and
carefully coaxed the enticing little curls into prominence. Then with a
final patriotic smile at herself in the mirror, she carefully climbed
through the window and crossed the roof garden to the rustic stairway.
As she walked briskly up Albatross to Walnut, then to Fourth where she
took the car, and all the way down-town she was carefully rehearsing her
stories and the most effective modes of presenting them. She knew the
rooms of the Service League well, having been there on many occasions
while there was still war and there were service men by the hundreds to
be danced with. Half a dozen men and boys were lounging at the curbstone,
and they eyed her curiously, grimly, Eveley thought. She wondered if they
knew she had come there to inspire them with love of the great America
which they must learn to call home. She straightened her slim shoulders
at the thought, and walked into the building with quite a martial air, as
became one on this high mission bent.
A keen-eyed, quick-speaking woman met her at the elevator, and led her back
into what she called "your corner" of the room. Evidently the room was
divided into countless corners, for several groups were clustered together
in different sections. But Eveley gave them only a fleeting glance. Her
heart and soul were centered on the group before her, eight boys,
dark-eyed, dark-skinned, of fourteen years or thereabouts. They looked at
Eveley appraisingly, as we always look on those who come to do us good.
Eveley looked upon them with tender solicitude, as philanthropists have
looked on their subjects since the world was born.
The introductions over, the keen-eyed one hurried away and Eveley faced
her sub-Americans.
Then she smiled, a winsome smile before which stronger men than they have
fallen. But they were curiously unsmiling in response. Their eyes
remained appraising almost to the point of open suspicion. Perhaps her
very prettiness aroused the inherent opposition of the male creature to
female uplift.
Eveley began, however, bravely enough, and told them her first and
prettiest story of sacrifice and country love. They listened gravely, but
they were not thrilled. Struggling against a growing sense of
incompetence, Eveley talked on and on, one story after another, pretty
word following pretty word. But each word fell alike on stony ground.
They sat like graven images, except for the bright suspicious gleam of
the dark eyes.
Finally Eveley stopped, and turned to them. "What do you think about it?"
she demanded. "You want to be Americans, don't you? You want to learn
what being an American means, don't you?" Her eyes were fastened
appealingly on a slender Russian lad, slouching in his chair at the end
of the row. "You want to be an American, I know."
Suddenly the slim lithe figure straightened, and the dark brows drew
together in a frown. "What are you getting at?" came in a sharp tone.
"I'm an American, ain't I? You don't take me for no German, do you?"
"No, no, of course not," she apologized placatingly. "Oh, certainly not.
I mean, you want to learn the things of America, so you can love this
country, and make it yours. Then you will forget that other land from
which you came, and know this for your own, now and forever."
Eveley was arrested by the steady gleam of a pair of eyes in the middle
of the row. There was open denial and disbelief written in every feature
and line of his face.
"Why?" came the terse query, as Eveley paused.
Eveley gazed upon him in wonderment. "Wh-what did you say?"
"I said, why?"
"Well, why not?" she countered nervously. "This is your country now. You
must love it best in all the world, and must grow to be like us,--one of
us,--America for Americans only, you know."
"You tell us to forget the land we came from," he said in an even
impersonal voice. "Is that patriotism,--to forget the land of your birth?
I thought patriotism was to remember your home-land,--holding it in your
heart,--hoping to return to it again,--and make it better."
"But--but that is not patriotism to this country," protested Eveley,
aghast. "That is--disloyalty. If you wish to be always of your own land,
and to love it best, you should stay there. If you come here, to get our
training, our education, our development, our riches,--then this must be
your country, and no other."
"Why?" he asked again. "Why should we not come here and get all the good
things you can give us, and learn what you can teach us, and take what
money we can earn, and then go back with all these good things to make
our own land bigger and better and richer? That is patriotism, I think."
"No, no," protested Eveley again. "That is not loyalty. If you choose
this country for your home, it must be first in your heart, and last
also. This is your home-land now,--the land you believe in, the land of
your love, America first."
"But America was not first. The home-land was first."
"Yes, it was first," she admitted pacifically. "But America is last.
America is the final touch. And so now you will learn our language, our
games, our business, our way of life. You will live here, work here, and
if war comes again you will die for America."
Then she went on very quickly, fearful of interruptions that were proving
so disastrous. "That is why we are organizing this little club, you boys
and I. We are going to talk together. We are going to play together. We
are going to study together. So you can learn American ways in all
things. Now what kind of club shall we have? That is the American way of
doing things. It is not my club, but yours. You are the people, and so
you must decide."
A long and profound silence followed, evidently indicative of deep
thought.
"A baseball club," at last suggested a small Jap with a bashful smile.
"That is a splendid idea," cried Eveley brightly. "Baseball is a good
American sport, a clean, lively game. Now what shall we call our baseball
club?"
Again deep thought, but in a moment from an earnest Jewish boy came the
suggestion, "The Irish-American Baseball League."
Eveley searched his face carefully, looking for traces of irony. But the
pinched thin features were earnest, the eyes alight with pleased
gratification at his readiness of retort.
A hum of approval indicated that the Irish-American League had met with
favor. But Eveley wavered.
"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 competitor, and Eveley declared him the captain.
A few moments later, Eveley was called away to the telephone by Nolan,
wishing 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 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?"
"About a year and a half."
"I never noticed," she said, and there was pain in her voice.
"Oh, well," he said soothingly, "there's always a jam going up and down
when you do, and you are tired evenings."
"But you are in the jam, too, and you are tired as well as I, but you
have seen."
"That's my job," he said complacently. "I got to know the folks in our
building."
"How much do you know about me?" she pursued with morbid curiosity.
He grinned at her again, companionably. "You're twenty-five years old,
and you're stuck on that fellow Inglish, with Morrow and Mayne over at
the Holland Building. You used to live with your aunt up on Thorn Street,
but she died and you got the house. B. T. Raines is your brother-in-law,
and he's got two kids, but his wife is not as good-looking as you are.
You stayed with them two months after your aunt died, but last week you
got a bunch of your beaux, soldiers and things, to build you some steps
up the outside of your house and now you live up there by yourself. Gee,
I'd think you'd be afraid of pirates and Greasers and things coming up
that canyon from the bay to rob you--you being just a woman alone up
there."
Eveley gazed upon him in blank astonishment. "Do--do you know that much
about everybody in our building?" she asked.
"Well, I know plenty about most of 'em, and some things that some of 'em
don't know I know, and wouldn't be keen on having talked around among
strangers. But of course I pays the most attention to the good-lookers,"
he admitted frankly.
"Thank you," said Eveley, with a faint smile. Then she flushed. "What
nerve for me to talk of assimilation," she said. "We don't know how to go
about it. We have been asleep and blind and careless and stupid, but
you--why, you will assimilate us, if we don't look out. You are a born
assimilator, Angelo, do you know that?"
"I guess so," came the answer vaguely, but politely. "I live about half a
mile below you, Miss Ainsworth, at the foot of the canyon on the bay
front. That's all the diff there is between us and you highbrows in
Mission Hills--about half a mile of canyon." He smiled broadly, pleased
with his fancy.
"That isn't much, is it, Angelo? And it will be less pretty soon, now
that we are trying to open our eyes. Good night, Angelo. I will see you
to-morrow--really see you, I mean. And please don't assimilate me quite
so fast--you must give me time. I--I am new to this business and progress
very slowly."
Then she said good night again, and went away. And Angelo swaggered back
to his companions. "Gee, ain't she a beaut?" he gloated. "All the swells
in our building is nuts on that dame. But she gives 'em all the go-by."
Then the Irish-American League, without the assimilator, went into a
private session with cigarettes and near-beer in a small dingy room far
down on Fifth Street--a session that lasted far into the night.
But Eveley Ainsworth did not know that. She was sitting in the dark
beside her window, staring out at the lights that circled the bay. But
she did not see them.
"Assimilate the foreign element," she whispered in a frightened voice. "I
am afraid we can't. It is too late. They got started first--and they are
so shrewd. But we've got to do something, and quickly, or--they will
assimilate us, beyond a doubt. And weren't they right about it, after
all? Isn't it patriotism and loyalty for them to go out to foreign
countries to pick up the finest and best of our civilization and take it
back to enrich their native land? It is almost--blasphemous--to teach
them a new patriotism to a new country. And yet we have to do it, to make
our country safe for us. But who has brains enough and heart enough to do
it? Oh, dear! And they do not call it duty that brings them here to take
what we can give them--they call it love--not love of us and of America,
but love of the little Wops and the little Greasers and the little Polaks
in their own home-land. Oh, dear, such a frightful mess we have got
ourselves into. And what a dunce I was to go to that silly meeting and
get myself mixed up in it."