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ITTLEFIELD, the right end, sang as he dressed. The alarm clock on the dresser in his bedroom marked the hour of half-past seven. There were dabs and smears of ink upon the crystal; they gave the glass the droll look of a face overcome with surprise. Probably, had the clock been able to speak, it would have expressed amazement. Littlefield, out of bed at half-past seven and combing his blond hair with critical exactness, was a transformation of such recent birth as still to be a matter of wonder.

"For I'm to be Queen of the May," the right end warbled, and grinned at his reflection in the mirror. A final sweep of the brush, a last twirl of the comb, and the job was done. The accomplishment seemed to fill him with a feeling of humor. He broke into satirical song: