One might fancy at the first blush, that such a boy is one to be envied, admired, and caressed above all others. Never wrong! What would not some of us give to have the same said of us? Aren't _we_ always blundering and losing our way and making asses of ourselves every day of our lives? What wonder then if to us a being who is "never wrong" should appear almost superhuman in his glory? But, so far from being the noble, delightful creature one would expect, the boy I am speaking of is an odious fellow, and as ridiculous as he is odious, and I will tell you why. The principal reason is, because he requires us to believe, on his own unaided testimony, that he is the infallible being he professes to be; and the second and hardly less important reason is, that, so far from being always right, he is as often, if not oftener, wrong than other people; in short, he's a hum! "Never wrong," indeed! If all the British Association were to declare as much of any one man, we should hardly be inclined to swallow it; but when our sole authority in the matter is Master Timothy Told-you-so himself, it becomes a joke, and a very poor joke too. Let us just take stock of Timothy for a minute or two, to explain what we mean. He's in class, and the lesson is history. He does not look happy, but of course that can't be because he doesn't know the lesson. Timothy not know a lesson indeed! "Timothy," says the master, "tell me in whose reign the Reformation was introduced into England, will you?" "James the First," replies Timothy. "Next boy?" "Henry the Eighth." "Right; go up." "Oh, sir," says Timothy, "that's what I meant; _I mistook the name_ for a moment!" And he goes down with the air of an injured and resigned boy. In the geography class which follows Tim has another opportunity of displaying his learning. "On what river does Berlin stand?" is the question. Tim hums and haws. "On the--oh--the--the, on the--er--the--" "Next boy?" "Berlin is on the Spree, sir." "Ah, of course! It slipped me," mutters Tim with a thoughtful frown. "Any one knows Berlin is on the Spree!" And down he goes again, as if it were the common lot of all clever boys. Arithmetic ensues. "Tell me, Timothy, if a man earns four shillings and sixpence halfpenny a day, how much does he make in a week of six days?" This enormous problem Tim takes due time to cogitate. Of course he could tell you straight off if he chose; but as it is the practice to work out sums in the head, he condescends to the common prejudice. At length the oracle speaks. "One pound three and two pence halfpenny." "Quite wrong; what do you make it, Edward?" "One pound four." "Wrong. Next?" "One pound seven and threepence." "That's right." "Oh yes, to be sure!" exclaims Tim, with the gesture of one who clutches at the very words of his own lips uttered by another; "of course, _that's what I meant_!" "Timothy," says the master, gravely, "if you meant it, why did you not say it?"