No; it had not been. Time was, not so very long ago, when Littlefield's day had started with a last minute scramble from under the bed coverings, had progressed to a feverish toilet, and had reached its climax in a mad scamper to report to his home room at the Northfield High School on time. Somebody had once remarked—it may have been Perry King—that Littlefield usually took a minute to dress and looked it. His trousers ran to baggy knees; shirt, collar and tie were discarded in favor of a faded sweater emblazoned with the purple N of Northfield. The sweater, Littlefield was given to explaining, was his best friend. It saved bother. He stood forth as a lovable, good-natured, careless, untidy young man!
And then the home rooms had each sent a committee to meet as a tentative Congress of the whole school. Littlefield, in his baggy trousers and his sweater, had gone to the gathering as one of the representatives of Room 13. He sat in the Congress among boys neatly and soberly dressed, supremely indifferent to his own attire. His interest was centered on the discussion of the best way to preserve order in the halls. One by one, as the delegates spoke, he abstractedly noted them. Then at last his turn came to express an opinion. He had something definite to say; but
