“It’s Irish-American we are,” shouts little Larry.
“And with the heft of both countries in your fists,” groans big Larry.
And then the Mother, who has been laying the table, meanwhile, interferes. “Come off of your poor Uncle,” she says, “and be eating your soup, like gentlemen and ladies. It’s getting cold on you waiting for you to finish your antics. Your poor Uncle Larry won’t come near you at all, and you all the time punishing him like that.”
And then the Baby, still sucking her spoon, is lifted into her high chair. A chair is placed for Uncle Larry, and they all eat their soup around the kitchen table, just as the very last rays of the summer sun make long streaks of light across the kitchen floor.
“Where’s Dennis?” says Uncle Larry, while the children are quiet for a moment.
“Oh, it’s Himself is so late that I feed the children and put them to bed before he gets home at all,” says the Mother. “It’s little he sees of them except of a Sunday.”
“It’s likely he’ll live the longer for that,” says Uncle Larry. He looks reproachfully at the children and rubs his head.
And then—“Mother, tell us, what kind of a boy was Uncle Larry when you and he were Twins and lived in Ireland,” says little Eileen.
“The best in the width of the world,” says her Mother promptly. “Weren’t you, Larry? Speak up and tell them now.”
And Uncle Larry laughs and says, “Sure, I was too good entirely! It wouldn’t be modest to tell you the truth about myself.”