On the street John found that the unseasonable heat had moderated somewhat. As he turned into Boylston Street a faint breeze, redolent of the marshes, blew into his face and caused him to tilt his hat away from his sunburned forehead. In front of the post-office he was hailed by an acquaintance, one Broom, a member of the Eleven.
“I hear you’re going to help coach this fall, North?”
“First I’ve heard of it,” answered John. “Though I found a note in my mail that rather bears out your statement, Pete. But I don’t know whether I’ll have time for it.”
“Rot, my boy, rot! It doesn’t require time; any old fool can coach a football team.”
“On the principle that it takes a fool to teach a fool, eh?”
“Sure. Where are you going? Come on ’round to the drug store and drink cooling draughts.”
John groaned and shook his head.
“Can’t, Pete. I’m a foster-mother.”
“A what?”
“Foster-mother. Good-by!”