"And then he turned over in the water--"

"Dead as a leg of mutton!" put in Tim.

"No; the shot missed him, and he wasn't touched."

"No. I meant they all thought he was as dead as a leg of mutton; but he
was not so much as grazed."

All this while the amusement of the listeners had been growing gradually
beyond control, and at this point smothered explosions of laughter from
one and another fell on Tim's ears, like the dropping of musketry fire.
But he did not guess its meaning, and continued turning towards
Tidswell, and waiting for the conclusion of the story.

"And the last they saw of him," resumed that worthy, his voice quailing
with the exertion to keep it grave and composed--"the last they saw of
him was, he was spinning away at the rate of twenty knots an hour, with
his tail in his mouth, in the direction of the North Pole."

"I fancied it was only eighteen knots an hour," put in Tim seriously.

Another moment, and the laughter would assuredly burst upon him.

"Not in the account I saw. What paper did you see it in, Tim?"

"Eh? Why, the same as you," replied Tim hurriedly, beginning to suspect
the crimson faces of his comrades meant something more than admiration
of his wisdom. "Where did you get the tale from? I forget."

"I got the tale out of my head--like the serpent, you humbug!" roared
Tidswell; and for the next five minutes Tim sat on his stool of
repentance, amid the yells of laughter with which his companions hailed
his discomfiture.

When silence was restored, of course he tried to explain that "he knew
all along it was a joke, and only wanted to see how far he could gammon
the fellows, and fancied he succeeded," and presently quitted the room,
an injured but by no means humiliated boy.

One last word. Timothy and his friends are amusing up to one point, and
detestable up to another point; but when they come to you in the hour of
your deepest sorrow and distress, and, with bland smile, say to you, "I
told you so!" they are beyond all endurance, and you hope for nothing
more devoutly than that you may never see their odious faces again.

The best cure possible for Tim is a homoeopathic one. Find some other
boy equally conceited, equally foolish, equally unscrupulous, and set
him at Tim. I will undertake to say that--unless the two devour one
another down to the very tips of their tails, like the famous Kilkenny
cats--they will bring one another to reason, and perhaps modesty, in