Parkhurst Boys Part 14

I am certain that if he were a prisoner of war _let_ out on parole, with a pledge to return in one hour or suffer death, he would turn up cool and comfortable on the sixtieth tick of the sixtieth minute of that hour, and look quite surprised at the men who were loading their muskets for his execution.

But some day the chances are he will be late in earnest, and then he will have to repent in a hurry of his bad speed.

A fellow who is easy-going about his time is generally easy-going about his friends, his money, and his morals.

Not that Ned is the sort of fellow to turn out a rascal exactly. He has not the energy, even if he had the inclination. A rascal, to be at all successful, must be brisk, and an observer of times and seasons, and that is altogether out of Ned's line. No; he'll be careless about what he does, and about what people think of him; he will lend a sovereign with as little idea of getting it back as he has of returning the pound he himself had borrowed; he will think nothing of keeping a friend waiting half a day; neither will he take offence if his own good nature is drawn on to an unlimited extent.

He is, after his fas.h.i.+on, an observer of the golden rule, for although he is constantly annoying and exasperating people by his easy-going ways, he is never afflicted if others do _to him_ as he does to them.

He goes through life with the notion that every one is as complaisant and comfortable as himself. "Easy-going-ness" (if one may coin a word for the occasion) is, many people would say, a combination of selfishness and stupidity, but I think such people judge rather too hardly of Ned and his compeers. It's all very well for some of us, who perhaps are of an active turn of mind, to talk about curing oneself of this fault; but perhaps, if we knew all, we should find that it would be about as easy as for a fair-complexioned person to make himself dark.

Ned's disposition is due more to his const.i.tution than his upbringing, and those who are blindly intolerant of his ways do him a wrong. I'm sure he himself wishes he were as smart as some boys he sees, but he can't be, and you might just as well try to lash an elephant into a gallop as Ned into a flurry.

It is generally found that what he does he does well, which in a measure makes up for the length of time he takes in doing it; he is good- natured, brave, harmless, and cheery, and has lots of friends, whom he allows full liberty both to abuse and laugh at him (and what can friends want more?) and for the rest, he's neither vicious nor an idiot; and if n.o.body were worse than he is, the world would perhaps be rather better than it is.

An artificial "easy-going-ness" is undoubtedly a vice. It's a forgery, however, easily detected, 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 a.s.ses 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 n.o.ble, 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 princ.i.p.al 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 a.s.sociation 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 cla.s.s, 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 cla.s.s 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 s.h.i.+llings 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."