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 head thrust to one side as though the ceiling of the classroom was too low for his height. By all the time-honored standards of boyhood he should have been the joke of the school.

Instead few students were held in higher esteem at Northfield. He was an inconspicuous member of Room 13. He did not often take part in debates, but when he did he was sure of his facts. His knowledge of parliamentary law had floored many an uncertain opponent. He supported school athletics to the point of attending all the at-home games, appearing at the field with a book under his arm and reading it during the major part of the contest. There was a widespread rumor that he never knew which side won a game, and was uncertain about the number of players on the nine. The school, taking note of his appearance and his attainments, called him "The Northfield Owl." It was a name of affection.

That March Prof. Banning led a pilgrimage to the County Court House where old Judge Seifert was holding Naturalization Court. Oliver sat in the first row of spectators' seats, and cocked his head to one side, and stared with rapt interest at what went on around him. From the silk flag, draped on the wall behind the bench, his eyes came down to the white-haired judge sitting there in the