Why not, indeed? That is one of the very few questions, reader, in all this world's philosophy which Timothy is unable to answer. Of course every one laughs at Timothy, but that does not afflict him. So fortified is he in the assurance of his own infallibility, that the scorn of the ignorant is to him but as the rippling of water at the base of a lighthouse. Do not mistake me, Tim is not a dunce. For every question he answers wrongly, perhaps he answers half a dozen correctly. If he chose to take his stand on his general proficiency, he would pass for a fairly clever fellow. But that will by no means satisfy him. He will never admit himself beaten. There is always some trivial accident, some unforeseen coincidence, without which his success would have been certain and recognised; but which, as it happens, slightly interfere with his triumph. It is the same in games as in the class-room. If he is beaten in a race, it is because he has slipped in starting; if he is clean bowled first ball at cricket, it is because there was a lump in the grass just where the ball pitched; if he lets the enemy's halfback pass him at football, it is because he made sure Perkins had collared him-- otherwise, of course, he would have won the race, made top score at the wickets, and saved his goal. As it happens, he does neither. There is a touch of dishonesty in this, though perhaps Tim does not intend it. Why cannot he own he is "out of it" now and then? His fellows would respect him far more and laugh at him far less; he would gain far more than he lost, besides having the satisfaction of knowing he had not tried to deceive anybody. But I sometimes think, when Tim makes his absurd excuses, he really believes what he says; just as the ostrich, when he buries his head in the sand, really believes he is hidden from the sight of his pursuers. It is natural in human nature not to relish the constant admission of error or failure. Who of us is not glad to feel at times (even if we do not say it) that "it's not our fault"? The person who is always making little of himself, and never admitting what small merit he might fairly claim, is pretty much the same sort of deception as Tim, and we despise him almost as much. We would all of us, in fact (and what wonder?) like to be "always right," and perhaps our tendency is to let the wish become father to the thought rather too often. But to return to Timothy. Nothing, of course, could astonish him; nothing was ever news to him; nothing could evoke his applause. "Tim," perhaps some one would say, "do you know old Grinder (the head master) is going to be married, and we are to get a week extra holiday?" "Ah," says Tim, to whom this is all news, "I always thought there was something of the kind up. For my own part, I thought we should get a fortnight extra." "Buck made a good jump yesterday, Tim," says another. "Five feet and half an inch."