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"Miss Farmer," he whispered, "has paid me." "Well, she thinks of everything!" exclaimed one of the girls. "You used to go to school to Gladys, didn't you, Irv?" "Yes, mam." He got into his car without opening the door, slipping like an eel round the steering-rod, and drove off. The girls followed Ralph up the gravel walk toward the house.
And Lawrence forgot Irving’s irritations in gratitude to him for his help. “It must be a trial to teach such a numskull,” Lawrence thought; and at the end of one particularly hard day he undertook to console his brother by saying, “Never mind, Irv; it won’t be long now before you have pupils who aren’t country bumpkins and don’t need to have things pounded into their heads with an axe.”
His aunt turned and flung her arms about him and kissed him; his uncle gave him a good-natured pat on the back and then stooped and said in his ear, “Irv, if you ever get into trouble,—go to Lawrence.” There was the merry, kindly twinkle in his eyes, the quizzical, humorous smile on his lips that made Irving know his uncle meant always, deep in his heart, to do the right thing.
"No, she wouldn't. She ought to, too. It should have been hers, by rights. If it wasn't for that silly quarrel between her father and Ed's " "I know, I know. But she's right, according to her lights, Mr. Herrick. Irv Walton wouldn't have touched any of that money with a pair of pincers. Still, I don't see as you need to have such a poor opinion of yourself.
“Tell me, Irv,” he said in a tone that simply brushed aside as non-existent everybody else at the table—just as if he and his brother were talking together alone, “what sort of kids do you have to look after in your dormitory, anyhow?” Irving’s lip twitched with amusement; Westby, still scarlet, was looking at his plate. “Oh, a pretty good sort—but they’re Sixth Formers, you know—not kids.”
The girls admired them, but declared that Gladys was extravagant, as usual; the flowers from her own yard would really have been enough. The car was driven by a lank, ragged boy who worked about the town garage, and who was called "Silent Irv," because nobody could ever get a word out of him.
He an' his wife never lived much at The Cedars that's what they called their place but used to come here now and then in the summer. They lived in New York. He had something to do with one of those magazines published down there. Irv Walton was a fine lookin' man, but sort of visionary. Made a lot of money at one time in mines out West an' then lost it all about four years ago.
“Besides, he’s only a Fourth Former,” said Westby. Lawrence laughed. “You’re Sixth, I suppose?” Westby nodded. “Going to Harvard next year?” “Yes.” “Good for you. I’ll tell you one thing; you couldn’t have a better man to get you in than this brother of mine—if I do say it. He tutored me for Harvard—and I guess you’ve never had a worse blockhead, have you, Irv?”
If anybody doubts it, let him try to do the trick. The Varsity team of Princeton in the fall of '79 was captained by Bland Ballard of the class of '80. He had a bunch of giants back of him. There were fifteen on the team in those days, and among them were such men as Devereaux, Brotherlin, Bryan, Irv. Withington, and the mighty McNair.
Isadore Binswanger rose from his couch, pressing his friend's hand and passing him round the little circle. "Pa, meet Irving Shapiro, city man for the Empire Waist Company. Irv, meet my father and mother and my sister." A round of handshaking. "We're as excited as a barnyard round here, Irv; the governor and the family just decided to light out for Europe for two months." "Europe!"
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