d, and generally brings its own punishment. I
advise none of my readers to try it on. If they are naturally energetic
and smart, they have a much better chance of rising in the world than
Ned has; but let them, when they laugh at Ned and abuse him, remember
the fable of the hare and the tortoise.

I must just tell one more story of Ned in conclusion.

One night our whole school was startled by an alarm of "Fire!" We
sprang from our beds, and, without waiting to dress, rushed to the
quarter from which the cry had proceeded. It was only too true; a barn
at one end of the buildings was in flames, and there seemed every
prospect of the school itself catching fire.

We hurried back in a panic towards the staircase leading to the front
door, and in doing so discovered Ned was not with us.

One of us darted off to the dormitory, where he lay in bed sound asleep.

A rough shake roused him.

"What's the row?" he drawled, stretching himself.

"Get up quick, Ned; there's a fire!"

"Where?" asked Ned, without stirring.

"In the doctor's wing."

The doctor's wing was that farthest removed from our dormitories.

Ned yawned.

"Then it couldn't possibly reach here for half an hour. Call us again
in twenty minutes, Ben, there's a good fellow!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE BOY WHO IS "NEVER WRONG."

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