He had caught perhaps a bit too much of Spike Brennon's manner of instruction, a certain strained brusquerie, out of pace with people who are willing to pay largely for instruction which they ignore in spite of its monotonous repetition.

John warned him that he must soften his clients--butter-r-r 'em up with nice words--or they wouldn't come back.

He must say they was doing gr-r-rand.

He did say it now and then, but with no ring of conviction.
Still it was a good summer.

Especially good, because all the time he knew he was waiting for that morning in early September when the school bell would ring and he would laugh carelessly at what had once been the imperious summons.