Peter Welles, psychiatrist, eyed the boy thoughtfully. Why
had Timothy Paul's teacher sent him for examination?
"I don't know, myself, that there's really anything wrong
with Tim," Miss Page had told Dr. Welles. "He seems per-
fectly normal. He's rather quiet as a rule, doesn't volunteer
answers in class or anything of that sort. He gets along well
enough with other boys and seems reasonably popular, al-
though he has no special friends. His grades are satisfactory
he gets B faithfully in all his work. But when you've been
teaching as long as I have. Peter, you get a feeling about
certain ones. There is a tension about hima look in his
eyes sometimesand he is very absentminded."
"What would your guess be?" Welles had asked. Some-
times these hunches were very valuable. Miss Page had
taught school for thirty-odd years; she had been Peter's
teacher in the past, and he thought highly of her opinion.
"I ought not to say," she answered. "There's nothing to go
onyet. But he might be starting something, and if it could
be headed off"
"Physicians are often called before the symptoms are suf-
ficiently marked for the doctor to be able to see them," said
Welles. "A patient, or the mother of a child, or any practiced
observer, can often see that something is going to be wrong.
But it's hard for the doctor in such cases. Tell me what you
think I should look for."
"You won't pay too much attention to me? It's just what
occurred to me. Peter; I know I'm not a trained psychiatrist.
But it could be delusions of grandeur. Or it could be a with-
drawing from the society of others. I always have to speak
to him twice to get his attention in classand he has no
real chums."
Welles had agreed to see what he could find, and
promised not to be too much influenced by what Miss Page
herself called "an old woman's notions."
Timothy, when he presented himself for examination,
seemed like an ordinary boy. He was perhaps a little small
for his age, he had big dark eyes and close-cropped dark
curls, thin sensitive fingers andyes, a decided air of ten-
sion. But many boys were nervous on their first visit to the
psychiatrist. Peter often wished that he was able to con-
centrate on one or two schools, and spend a day a week or
so getting acquainted with all the youngsters.
In response to Welles' preliminary questioning, Tim re-
plied in a clear, low voice, politely and without wasting
words. He was thirteen years old, and lived with his grand-
parents. His mother and father had died when he was a
baby, and he did not remember them. He said that he was
happy at home, and that he liked school "pretty well," that
he liked to play with other boys. He named several boys
when asked who his friends were.
"What lessons do you like at school?"
Tim hesitated, then said: "English, and arithmetic . . .
and history . . . and geography," he finished thoughtfully.
Then he looked up, and there was something odd in the
glance.
"What do you like to do for fun?"
"Read, and play games."
"What games?"
"Ball games . . . and marbles . . . and things like that.
I like to play with other boys," he added, after a barely per-
ceptible pause, "anything they play."
"Do they play at your house?"
"No; we play on the school grounds. My grandmother
doesn't like noise."
Was that the reason? When a quiet boy offers explana-
tions, they may not be the right ones.
"What do you like to read?"
But about his reading Timothy was vague. He liked, he
said, to read "boys' books," but could not name any.
Welles gave the boy the usual intelligence tests. Tim
seemed willing, but his replies were slow in coming. Per-
haps, Welles thought, I'm imagining this, but he is too
carefultoo cautious. Without taking time to figure exactly,
Welles knew what Tim's I.Q. would beabout 120.
"What do you do outside of school?" asked the
psychiatrist.
"I play with the other boys. After supper, I study my
lessons."
"What did you do yesterday?"
"We played ball on the school playground."
Welles waited a while to see whether Tim would say any-
thing of his own accord. The seconds stretched into minutes.
"Is that all?" said the boy finally. "May I go now?"
"No; there's one more test I'd like to give you today. A
game, really. How's your imagination?"
"I don't know."
"Cracks on the ceilinglike those over theredo they look
like anything to you? Faces, animals, or anything?"
Tim looked.
"Sometimes. And clouds, too. Bob saw a cloud last week
that was like a hippo." Again the last sentence sounded like
something tacked on at the last moment, a careful addition
made for a reason.
Welles got out the Rorschach cards. But at the sight of
them, his patient's tension increased, his wariness became
unmistakably evident. The first time they went through the
cards, the boy could scarcely be persuaded to say anything
but, "I don't know."
"You can do better than this," said Welles. "We're going
through them again. If you don't see anything in these
pictures, III have to mark you a failure," he explained.
"That won't do. You did all right on the other things. And
maybe next time we'll do a game youll like better."
"I don't feel like playing this game now. Can't we do it
again next time?"
"May as well get it done now. It's not only a game, you
know, Tim; it's a test. Try harder, and be a good sport."
So Tim, this time, told what he saw in the ink blots. They
went through the cards slowly, and the test showed Tim's
fear, and that there was something he was hiding; it showed
his caution, a lack of trust, and an unnaturally high emo-
tional self-control.
Miss Page had been right; the boy needed help.
"Now," said Welles cheerfully, "that's all over. Well just
run through them again quickly and III tell you what other
people have seen in them."
A flash of genuine interest appeared on the boy's face for
a moment.
Welles went through the cards slowly, seeing that Tim
was attentive to every word. When he first said, "And some
see what you saw here," the boy's relief was evident. Tim
began to relax, and even to volunteer some remarks. When
they had finished he ventured to ask a question.
"Dr. Welles, could you tell me the name of this test?"
"It's sometimes called the Rorschach test, after the man
who worked it out."
"Would you mind spelling that?"
Welles spelled it, and added: "Sometimes it's called the
ink-blot test."
Tim gave a start of surprise, and then relaxed again with
a visible effort.
"What's the matter? You jumped."
"Nothing."
"Oh, come on! Let's have it," and Welles waited.
"Only that I thought about the ink-pool in the Kipling
stories,"  said  Tim,  after  a  minute's  reflection.  "This  is
different."
"Yes, very different," laughed Welles. "I've never tried
that. Would you like to?"
"Oh, no, sir," cried Tim earnestly.
"Youre a little jumpy today," said Welles. "We've time
for some more talk, if you are not too tired."
"No, I'm not very tired," said the boy warily.
Welles went to a drawer and chose a hypodermic needle,
It wasn't usual, but perhaps"I'll just give you a little shot
to relax your nerves, shall I? Then we'd get on better."
When he turned around, the stark terror on the child's
face stopped Welles in his tracks.
"Oh, nol Don'tl Please, please, don't!"
Welles replaced the needle and shut the drawer before
he said a word.
"I won't," he said, quietly. "I didn't know you didn't like
shots. I won't give you any, Tim."
The boy, fighting for self-control, gulped and said
nothing.
"It's all right," said Welles, lighting a cigarette and pre-
tending to watch the smoke rise. Anything rather than ap-
pear to be watching the badly shaken small boy shivering
in the chair opposite him. "Sorry. You didn't tell me about
the things you don't like, the things you're afraid of."
The words hung in the silence.
"Yes," said Timothy slowly. "I'm afraid of shots. I hate
needles. It's just one of those things." He tried to smile.
"We'll do without them, then. You've passed all the tests,
Tim, and I'd like to walk home with you and tell your
grandmother about it. Is that all right with you?"
"Yes, sir."
"We'll stop for something to eat," Welles went on, open-
ing the door for his patient. "Ice cream, or a hot dog."
They went out together.
Timothy Paul's grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Herbert
Davis, lived in a large old-fashioned house that spelled
money and position. The grounds were large, fenced, and
bordered with shrubbery. Inside the house there was little
that was new, everything was well-kept. Timothy led the
psychiatrist to Mr. Davis's library, and then went in search
of his grandmother.
When Welles saw Mrs. Davis, he thought he had some
of the explanation.  Some grandmothers  are  easy-going,
jolly,  comparatively young.  This  grandmother  was,  as  it
soon became apparent, quite different.
"Yes, Timothy is a pretty good boy," she said, smiling on
her grandson. "We have always been strict with him. Dr.
Welles, but I believe it pays. Even when he was a mere
baby, we tried to teach him right ways. For example, when
he was barely three I read him some little stories. And a
few days later he was trying to tell us, if you will believe
it, that he could read I Perhaps he was too young to know
the nature of a lie, but I felt it my duty to make him un-
derstand. When he insisted, I spanked him. The child had
a remarkable memory, and perhaps he thought that was
all there was to reading. Well! I don't mean to brag of my
brutality," said Mrs. Davis, with a charming smile. "I as-
sure you, Dr. Welles, it was a painful experience for me.
We've had very little occasion for punishments. Timothy
is a good boy."
Welles murmured that he was sure of it.
"Timothy, you may deliver your papers now," said Mrs.
Davis. "I am sure Dr. Welles will excuse you." And she
settled herself for a good long talk about her grandson.
Timothy, it seemed, was the apple of her eye. He was a
quiet boy, an obedient boy, and a bright boy.
"We have our rules, of course. I have never allowed Tim-
othy to forget that children should be seen and not heard,
as the good old-fashioned saying is. When he first learned
to turn somersaults, when he was three or four years old,
he kept coming to me and saying, 'Grandmother, see mel'
I simply had to be firm with him. 'Timothy,' I said, let us
have no more of thisi It is simply showing off. If it amuses
you to turn somersaults, well and good. But it doesn't amuse
me to watch you endlessly doing it. Play if you like, but
do not demand admiration.'"
"Did you never play with him?"
"Certainly I played with him. And it was a pleasure to
me also. WeMr. Davis and Itaught him a great many
games, and many kinds of handicraft. We read stories to
him and taught him rhymes and songs. I took a special
course in kindergarten craft, to amuse the childand I must
admit that it amused me also!" added Tim's grandmother,
smiling reminiscently. "We made houses of toothpicks, with
balls of clay at the corners. His grandfather took him for
walks and drives. We no longer have a car, since my hus-
band's sight has begun to fail him slightly, so now the ga-
rage is Timothy's workshop. We had windows cut in it, and
a door, and nailed the large doors shut."
It soon became clear that Tim's life was not all strictures
by any means. He had a workshop of his own, and upstairs
beside his bedroom was his own library and study.
"He keeps his books and treasures there," said his grand-
mother, "his own little radio, and his schoolbooks, and his
typewriter. When he was only seven years old, he asked
us for a typewriter. But he is a careful child, Dr. Welles,
not at all destructive, and I had read that in many schools
they make use of typewriters in teaching young children
to read and write and to spell. The words look the same
as in printed books, you see; and less muscular effort is in-
volved. So his grandfather got him a very nice noiseless
typewriter, and he loved it dearly. I often hear it purring
away as I pass through the hall. Timothy keeps his own
rooms in good order, and his shop also. It is his own wish.
You know how boys arethey do not wish others to med-
dle with their belongings. 'Very well, Timothy,' I told him,
'if a glance shows me that you can do it yourself properly,
nobody will go into your rooms; but they must be kept
neat.' And he has done so for several years. A very neat
boy, Timothy."
"Timothy didn't mention his paper route," remarked
Welles. "He said only that he plays with other boys after
school."
"Oh, but he does," said Mrs. Davis. "He plays until five
o'clock, and then he delivers his papers. If he is late, his
grandfather walks down and calls him. The school is not
very far from here, and Mr. Davis frequently walks down
and watches the boys at their play. The paper route is
Timothy's way of earning money to feed his cats. Do you
care for cats, Dr. Welles?"
"Yes, I like cats very much," said the psychiatrist. "Many
boys like dogs better."
"Timothy had a dog when he was a babya collie." Her
eyes grew moist. "We all loved Ruff dearly. But I am no
longer young, and the care and training of a dog is difficult.
Timothy is at school or at the Boy Scout camp or something
of the sort a great part of the time, and I thought it best
that he should not have another dog. But you wanted to
know about our cats, Dr. Welles. I raise Siamese cats."
"Interesting pets," said Welles cordially. "My aunt raised
them at one time."
"Timothy is very fond of them. But three years ago he
asked me if he could have a pair of black Persians. At first
I thought not; but we like to please the child, and he prom-
ised to build their cages himself. He had taken a course in
carpentry at vacation school. So he was allowed to have
a pair of beautiful black Persians. But the very first litter
turned out to be short-haired, and Timothy confessed that
he had mated his queen to my Siamese torn, to see what
would happen. Worse yet, he had mated his torn to one of
my Siamese queens. I really was tempted to punish him.
But, after all, I could see that he was curious as to the out-
come of such crossbreeding. Of course I said the kittens
must be destroyed. The second litter was exactly like the
firstall black, with short hair. But you know what children
are. Timothy begged me to let them live, and they were
his first kittens. Three in one litter, two in the other. He
might keep them, I said, if he would take full care of them
and be responsible for all the expense. He mowed lawns
and ran errands and made little footstools and bookcases to
sell, and did all sorts of things, and probably used his al-
lowance, too. But he kept the kittens and has a whole row
of cages in the yard beside his workshop."
"And their offspring?" inquired Welles, who could not
see what all this had to do with the main question, but
was willing to listen to anything that might lead to infor-
mation.
"Some of the kittens appear to be pure Persian, and others
pure Siamese. These he insisted on keeping, although, as
I have explained to him, it would be dishonest to sell them,
since they are not pure-bred. A good many of the kittens
are black short-haired and these we destroy. But enough of
cats, Dr. Welles. And I am afraid I am talking too much
about my grandson."
"I can understand that you are very proud of him," said
Welles.
"I must confess that we are. And he is a bright boy. When
he and his grandfather talk together, and with me also, he
asks very intelligent questions. We do not encourage him
to voice his opinions1 detest the smart-Aleck type of
small boyand yet I believe they would be quite good opin-
ions for a child of his age."
"Has his health always been good?" asked Welles.
"On the whole, very good. I have taught him the value
of exercise, play, wholesome food and suitable rest. He has
had a few of the usual childish ailments, not seriously. And
he never has colds. But, of course, he takes his cold shots
twice a year when we do."
"Does he mind the shots?" asked Welles, as casually as
he could.
"Not at all. I always say that he, though so young, sets
an example I find hard to follow. I still flinch, and really
rather dread the ordeal."
Welles looked toward the door at a sudden, slight sound.
Timothy stood there, and he had heard. Again, fear was
stamped on his face and terror looked out of his eyes.
"Timothy," said his grandmother, "don't stare."
"Sorry, sir," the boy managed to say.
"Are your papers all delivered? I did not realize we had
been talking for an hour, Dr. Welles. Would you like to see
Timothy's cats?" Mrs. Davis inquired graciously. "Timothy,
take Dr. Welles to see your pets. We have had quite a talk
about them."
Welles got Tim out of the room as fast as he could. The
boy led the way around the house and into the side yard
where the former garage stood.
There the man stopped.
"Tim," he said, "you don't have to show me the cats if
you don't want to."
"Oh, that's all right."
"Is that part of what you are hiding? If it is, I don't want
to see it until you are ready to show me."
Tim looked up at him then.
'Thanks," he said. "I don't mind about the cats. Not if
you like cats really."
"I really do. But, Tim, this I would like to know: You're
not afraid of the needle. Could you tell me why you were
afraid . . . why you said you were afraid . . . of my shot?
The one I promised not to give you after all?"
Their eyes met.
"You won't tell?" asked Tim.
"I won't tell."
"Because it was pentothal. Wasn't it?"
Welles gave himself a slight pinch. Yes, he was awake.
Yes, this was a little boy asking him about pentothal. A boy
whoyes, certainly, a boy who knew about it.
"Yes, it was," said Welles. "A very small dose. You know
what it is?"
"Yes, sir. I . . . I read about it somewhere. In the papers."
"Never mind that. You have a secretsomething you
want to hide. That's what you are afraid about, isn't it?"
The boy nodded dumbly.
"If it's anything wrong, or that might be wrong, perhaps
I could help you. You'll want to know me better, first. You'll
want to be sure you can trust me. But I'll be glad to help,
any time you say the word, Tim. Or I might stumble on to
things the way I did just now. One thing though1 never
tell secrets."
"Never?"
"Never. Doctors and priests don't betray secrets. Doctors
seldom, priests never. I guess I am more like a priest, be-
cause of the kind of doctoring I do."
He looked down at the boy's bowed head.
"Helping fellows who are scared sick," said the psy-
chiatrist very gently. "Helping fellows in trouble, getting
things straight again, fixing things up, unsnarling tangles.
When I can, that's what I do. And I don't tell anything to
anybody. It's just between that one fellow and me."
But, he added to himself, I'll have to find out. I'll have to
find out what ails this child. Miss Page is righthe needs me.
They went to see the cats.
There were the Siamese in their cages, and the Persians
in their cages, and there, in several small cages, the short-
haired black cats and their hybrid offspring. "We take them
into the house, or let them into this big cage, for exercise,"
explained Tim. "I take mine into my shop sometimes. These
are all mine. Grandmother keeps hers on the sun porch."
"You'd never know these were not all pure-bred," ob-
served Welles. "Which did you say were the full Persians?
Any of their kittens here?"
"No; I sold them."
"I'd like to buy one. But these look just the sameit
wouldn't make any difference to me. I want a pet, and
wouldn't use it for breeding stock. Would you sell me one
of these?"
Timothy shook his head.
"I'm sorry. I never sell any but the pure-breds."
It was then that Welles began to see what problem he
faced. Very dimly he saw it, with joy, relief, hope and
wild enthusiasm.
"Why not?" urged Welles. "I can wait for a pure-bred,
if you'd rather, but why not one of these? They look just
the same. Perhaps they'd be more interesting."
Tim looked at Welles for a long, long minute.
"I'll show you," he said. "Promise to wait here? No, III
let you come into the workroom. Wait a minute, please."
The boy drew a key from under his blouse, where it had
hung suspended from a chain, and unlocked the door of
his shop. He went inside, closed the door, and Welles could
hear him moving about for a few moments. Then he came
to the door and beckoned.
"Don't tell grandmother," said Tim. "I haven't told her
yet. If it lives, I'll tell her next week."
In the corner of the shop under a table there was a box,
and in the box there was a Siamese cat. When she saw a
stranger she tried to hide her kittens; but Tim lifted her
gently, and then Welles saw. Two of the kittens looked like
little white rats with stringy tails and smudgy paws, ears
and noses. But the thirdyes, it was going to be a differ-
ent sight. It was going to be a beautiful cat if it lived. It had
long, silky white hair like the finest Persian, and the Siamese
markings were showing up plainly.
Welles caught his breath.
"Congratulations, old man! Haven't you told anyone yet?"
"She's not ready to show. She's not a week old."
"But you're going to show her?"
"Oh, yes, grandmother will be thrilled. Shell love her.
Maybe there'll be more."
"You knew this would happen. You made it happen. You
planned it all from the start," accused Welles.
"Yes," admitted the boy.
"How did you know?"
The boy turned away.
"I read it somewhere," said Tim.
The cat jumped back into the box and began to nurse
her babies. Welles felt as if he could endure no more. With-
out a glance at anything else in the roomand everything
else was hidden under tarpaulins and newspapershe went
to the door.
"Thanks for showing me, Tim," he said. "And when you
have any to sell, remember me. I'll wait. I want one like
that."
The boy followed him out and locked the door carefully.
"But Tim," said the psychiatrist, "that's not what you
were afraid I'd find out. I wouldn't need a drug to get you
to tell me this, would I?"
Tim replied carefully, "I didn't want to tell this until I
was ready. Grandmother really ought to know first. But you
made me tell you."
"Tim," said Peter Welles earnestly, "III see you again.
Whatever you are afraid of, don't be afraid of me. I often
guess secrets. I'm on the way to guessing yours already. But
nobody else need ever know."
He walked rapidly home, whistling to himself from time
to time. Perhaps he. Peter Welles, was the luckiest man
in the world.
He had scarcely begun to talk to Timothy on the boy's
next appearance at the office, when the phone in the hall
rang. On his return, when he opened the door he saw a
book in Tim's hands. The boy made a move as if to hide it,
and thought better of it.
Welles took the book and looked at it.
"Want to know more about Rorschach, eh?" he asked.
"I saw it on the shelf. I"
"Oh, that's all right," said Welles, who had purposely left
the book near the chair Tim would occupy. "But what's the
matter with the library?"
"They've got some books about it, but they're on the
closed shelves. I couldn't get them." Tim spoke without
thinking Brst, and then caught his breath.
But Welles replied calmly: "I'll get it out for you. Ill have
it next time you come. Take this one along today when you
go. Tim, I mean ityou can trust me."
"I can't tell you anything," said the boy. "You've found
out some things. I wish . . . oh, I don't know what I wishi
But I'd rather be let alone. I don't need help. Maybe I
never will. If I do, can't I come to you then?"
Welles pulled out his chair and sat down slowly.
"Perhaps that would be the best way, Tim. But why wait
for the ax to fall? I might be able to help you ward it off
what you're afraid of. You can kid people along about the
cats; tell them you were fooling around to see what would
happen. But you can't fool all of the people all of the time,
they tell me. Maybe with me to help, you could. Or with
me to back you up, the blowup would be easier. Easier on
your grandparents, too."
"I haven't done anything wrongi"
"I'm beginning to be sure of that. But things you try to
keep hidden may come to light. The kittenyou could hide
it, but you don't want to.  You've got to risk something  to
show it."
"I'll tell them I read it somewhere."
"That wasn't true, then. I thought not. You figured it out."
There was silence.
Then Timothy Paul said: "Yes, I figured it out. But that's
my secret."
"It's safe with me."
But the boy did not trust him yet. Welles soon learned
that he had been tested. Tim took the book home. and re-
turned it, took the library books which Welles got for him,
and in due course returned them also. But he talked little
and was still wary. Welles could talk all he liked, but he
got little or nothing out of Tim. Tim had told all he was
going to tell. He would talk about nothing except what any
boy would talk about.
After two months of this, during which Welles saw Tim
officially once a week and unofficially several timesshow-
ing up at the school playground to watch games, or meet-
ing Tim on the paper route and treating him to a soda after
it was  finishedWelles  had  learned  very  little  more.  He
tried again. He had probed no more during the two months,
respected the boy's silence, trying to give him time to get
to know and trust him.
But one day he asked: "What are you going to do when
you grow up, Tim? Breed cats?"
Tim laughed a denial.
"I don't know what, yet. Sometimes I think one thing,
sometimes another."
This was a typical boy answer. Welles disregarded It.
"What would you like to do best of all?" he asked.
Tim leaned forward eagerly. "What you do!" he cried.
"You've been reading up on it, I suppose," said Welles,
as casually as he could, "Then you know, perhaps, that be-
fore anyone can do what I do, he must go through it him-
self, like a patient. He must also study medicine and be a
full-fledged doctor, of course. You can't do that yet. But you
can have the works now. like a patient."
"Why? For the experience?"
"Yes. And for the cure. You'll have to face that fear and
lick it. You'll have to straighten out a lot of other things, or
at least face them."
"My fear will be gone when I'm grown up," said Tim-
othy. "I think it will. I hope it will."
"Can you be sure?"
"No," admitted the boy. "I don't know exactly why I'm
afraid. I just know I must hide things. Is that bad, too?"
"Dangerous, perhaps."
Timothy thought a while in silence. Welles smoked three
cigarettes and yearned to pace the floor, but dared not
move.
"What would it be like?" asked Tim finally.
"You'd tell me about yourself. What you remember. Your
childhoodthe way your grandmother runs on when she
talks about you."
"She sent me out of the room. I'm not supposed to think
I'm bright," said Tim, with one of his rare grins.
"And you're not supposed to know how well she reared
you?"
"She did fine," said Tim. "She taught me all the wisest
things I ever knew."
"Such as what?"
"Such as shutting up. Not telling all you know. Not show-
ing off."
"I see what you mean," said Welles. "Have you heard
the story of St. Thomas Aquinas?"
"No."
"When he was a student in Paris, he never spoke out in
class, and the others thought him stupid.  One of them
kindly offered to help him, and went over all the work very
patiently to make him understand it. And then one day
they came to a place where the other student got all mixed
up and had to admit he didn't understand. Then Thomas
suggested a solution and it was the right one. He knew more
than any of the others all the time; but they called him the
Dumb Ox."
Tim nodded gravely.
"And when he grew up?" asked the boy.
"He was the greatest thinker ot all time," said Welles.
"A fourteenth-century super-brain. He did more orifinal
work than any other ten great men; and he died young."
After that, it was easier.  .
"How do I begin?" asked Timothy.
"You'd better begin at the beginning. Tell me all you can
remember about your early childhood, before you went to
school."
Tim gave this his consideration.
"I'll have  to  go  forward and backward a  lot," he  said.
"I couldn't put it all in order."
"That's all right. Just tell me today all you can remem-
ber about that time of your life. By next week you'll have
remembered more. As we go on to later periods ot your
life, you may remember things that belonged to an earlier
time; tell them then. We'll make some sort of order out
of it."
Wellcs listened to the boy's revelations with growing ex-
citement. He found it difficult to keep outwardly calm.
"When did you begin to read?" Welles asked.
"I don't know when it was. My grandmother read me
some stories, and somehow I got the idea about the words.
But when I tried to tell her I could read, she spanked me.
She kept saying I couldn't, and I kept saying I could, until
she spanked me. For a while I had a dreadful time, because
I didn't know any word she hadn't read to me1 guess I
sat beside her and watched, or else I remembfi'ed and then
went over it by myself right after. I must have learned as
soon as I got the idea that each group ot letters on the page
was a word."
'The word-unit method," Welles commented. "Most self-
taught readers learned like that."
"Yes. I have read about it since. And Macaulay could
read when he was three, but only upside-down, because of
standing opposite when his father read the Bible to the
family."
"There are many cases of children who learned to read
as you did, and surprised their parents. Well? How did you
get on?"
"One day I noticed that two words looked almost alike
and sounded almost alike. They were 'can' and 'man.' I
remember staring at them and then it was like something
beautiful boiling up in me. I began to look carefully at the
words, but in a crazy excitement. I was a long while at it,
because when I put down the book and tried to stand up I
was stiff all over. But I had the idea, and after that it wasn't
hard to figure out almost any words. The really hard words
are the common ones that you get all the time in easy books.
Other words are pronounced the way they are spelled."
"And nobody knew you could read?"
"No. Grandmother told me not to say I could, so I didn't.
She read to me often, and that helped. We had a great many
books, of course. J liked those with pictures. Once or twice
they caught me with a book that had no pictures, and
then they'd take it away and say, III find a book for a little
boy.' "
"Do you remember what books you liked then?"
"Books about animals, I remember. And geographies. It
was funny about animals"
Once you got Timothy started, thought Welles, it wasn't
hard to get him to go on talking,
"One day I was at the Zoo," said Tim, "and by the cages
alone. Grandmother was resting on a bench and she let me
walk along by myself. People were talking about the ani-
mals and I began to tell them all I knew. It must have bepn
funny in a way, because I had read a lot of words I couldn't
pronounce correctly, words I had never heard spoken. They
listened and asked me questions and I thought I was just
like grandfather,  teaching them the way he sometimes
taught me. And then they called another man to come, and
said, 'Listen to this kid; he's a screami' and I saw they
were all laughing at me."
Timothy's face was redder than usual, but he tried to
smile as he added, "I can see now how it must have sounded
funny. And unexpected, too; that's a big point in humor.
But my little feelings were so dreadfully hurt that I ran
back to my grandmother crying, and she couldn't find out
why. But it served me right for disobeying her. She always
told me not to tell people things; she said a child had
nothing to teach its elders."
"Not in that way, perhapsat that age."
"But, honestly, some grown people don't know very
much," said Tim. "When we went on the train last year, a
woman came up and sat beside me and started to tell me
things a little boy should know about California. I told her
I'd lived here all my life, but I guess she didn't even know
we are taught things in school, and she tried to tell me
things, and almost everything was wrong."
"Such as what?" asked Welles, who had also suffered
from tourists.
"We . . . she said so many things . . . but I thought this
was the funniest: She said all the Missions were so old
and interesting, and I said yes, and she said, 'You know,
they were all built long before Columbus discovered Amer-
ica,' and I thought she meant it for a joke, so I laughed. She
looked very serious and said, 'Yes, those people all come
up here from Mexico.' I suppose she thought they were Az-
tec temples."
Welles, shaking with laughter, could not but agree that
many adults were sadly lacking in the rudiments of knowl-
edge.
"After that Zoo experience, and a few others like it, I
began to get wise to myself," continued Tim. "People who
knew things didn't want to hear me repeating them, and
people who didn't know, wouldn't be taught by a four-year-
old baby. I guess I was four when I began to write."
"How?"
"Oh, I just thought if I couldn't say anything to anybody
at any time, I'd burst. So I began to put it downin print-
ing, like in books. Then I found out about writing, and we
had some old-fashioned schoolbooks that taught how to
write. I'm left-handed. When I went to school, I had to use
my right hand. But by then I had learned how to pretend
that I didn't know things. I watched the others and did as
they did. My grandmother told me to do that."
"I wonder why she said that," marveled Welles.
"She knew I wasn't used to other children, she said, and
it was the first time she had left me to anyone else's care.
So, she told me to do what the others did and what my
teacher said," explained Tim simply, "and I followed her
advice literally. I pretended I didn't know anything, until
the others began to know it, too. Lucky I was so shy. But
there were things to learn, all right. Do you know, when
I was first sent to school, I was disappointed because the
teacher dressed like other women. The only picture of teach-
ers I had noticed were those in an old Mother Goose book,
and I thought that all teachers wore hoop skirts. But as
soon as I saw her, after the little shock of surprise, I knew
it was silly, and I never told."
The psychiatrist and the boy laughed together.
"We played games. I had to learn to play with children,
and not be surprised when they slapped or pushed me. I
just couldn't figure out why they'd do that, or what '.'.)od
it did them. But if it was to surprise me.  I'd say 'Boo' and
surprise them some time later; and if they were mad be-
cause I had taken a ball or something they wanted. I'd
play with them."
"Anybody ever try to beat you up?"
"Oh, yes. But I had a book about boxingwith pictures.
You can't learn much from pictures, but I got some prac-
tice too, and that helped. I didn't want to win, anyway.
That's what I like about games of strength or skill1m
fairly matched, and I don't have to be always watching in
case I might show off or try to boss somebody around."
"You must have tried bossing sometimes."
"In books, they all cluster around the boy who can teach
new games and think up new things to play. But I found
out that doesn't work. They just want to do the same thing
all the timelike hide and seek. It's no fun if the first one
to be caught is 'it' next time. The rest just walk in any old
way and don't try to hide or even to run, because it doesn't
matter whether they are caught. But you can't get the boys
to see that, and play right, so the last one caught is 'it'."
Timothy looked at his watch.
"Time to go," he said. "I've enjoyed talking to you. Dr.
Welles. I hope I haven't bored you too much."
Welles recognized the echo and smiled appreciatively at
the small boy.
"You didn't tell me about the writing. Did you start to
keep a diary?"
"No. It was a newspaper. One page a day, no more and
no less. I still keep it," confided Tim. "But I get more on
the page now. I type it."
"And you write with either hand now?"
"My left hand is my own secret writing. For school and
things like that I use my right hand."
When Timothy had left, Welles congratulated himself.
But for the next month he got no more. Tim would not
reveal a single significant fact. He talked about ball-playing,
he described his grandmother's astonished delight over the
beautiful kitten, he told of its growth and the tricks it
played. He gravely related such enthralling facts as that he
liked to ride on trains, that his favorite wild animal was the
lion, and that he greatly desired to see snow falling. But not
a word of what Welles wanted to hear. The psychiatrist,
knowing that he was again being tested, waited patiently.
Then one afternoon when Welles, fortunately unoccupied
with a patient, was smoking a pipe on his front porch,
Timothy Paul strode into the yard.
"Yesterday Miss Page asked me if I was seeing you and I
said yes. She said she hoped my grandparents didn't find it
too expensive, because you had told her I was all right and
didn't need to have her worrying about me. And then I said
to grandma, was it expensive for you to talk to me, and she
said, 'Oh no, dear; the school pays for that. It was your
teacher's idea that you have a few talks with Dr. Welles.'"
"I'm glad you came to me, Tim, and I'm sure you didn't
give me away to either of them. Nobody's paying me. The
school pays for my services if a child is in a bad way and his
parents are poor. It's a new service, since 1956. Many mal-
adjusted children can be helpedmuch more cheaply to the
state than the cost of having them go crazy or become crimi-
nals or something. You understand all that. Butsit down,
Timi1 can't charge the state for you, and I can't charge
your grandparents. You're adjusted marvelously well in
every way, as far as I can see; and when I see the rest, I'll be
even more sure of it."
"Well goshi I wouldn't have come" Tim was stammer-
ing in confusion. "You ought to be paid. I take up so much
of your time. Maybe I'd better not come any more."
"I think you'd better. Don't you?"
"Why are you doing it for nothing. Dr. Welles?"
"I think you know why."
The boy sat down in the glider and pushed himself medi-
tatively back and forth. The glider squeaked.
"You're interested. You're curious," he said.
"That's not all, Tim."
Squeak-squeak. Squeak-squeak.
"I know," said Timothy. "I believe it. Look, is it all right if
I call you Peter? Since we're friends."
At their next meeting, Timothy went into details about
his newspaper. He had kept all the copies, from the first
smudged, awkwardly printed pencil issues to the very latest
neatly typed ones. But he would not show Welles any of
them.
"I just put down every day the things I most wanted to
say, the news or information or opinion I had to swallow
unsaid. So it's a wild medley. The earlier copies are awfully
funny. Sometimes I guess what they were all about, what
made me write them. Sometimes I remember. I put down
the books I read too, and mark them like school grades, on
two pointshow I liked the book, and whether it was good.
And whether I had read it before, too."
"How many books do you read? What's your reading
speed?"
It proved that Timothys reading speed on new books of
adult level varied from eight hundred to nine hundred fifty
words a minute. The average murder mysteryhe loved
themtook him a little less than an hour. A year's homework
in history, Tim performed easily by reading his textbook
through three or four times during the year. He apologized
for that, but explained that he had to know what was in the
book so as not to reveal in examinations too much that he
had learned from other sources. Evenings, when his grand-
parents believed him to be doing homework he spent his
time reading other books, or vyriting his newspaper, "or
something." As Welles had already guessed, Tim had read
everything in his grandfather's library, everything of interest
in the public library that was not on the closed shelves, and
everything he could order from the state library.
"What do the librarians say?"
"They think the books are for my grandfather. I tell them
that, if they ask what a little boy wants with such a big book,
Peter, telling so many lies is what gets me down. I have to
do it, don't I?"
"As far as I can see, you do," agreed Welles, "But here's
material for a while in my library. There'11 have to be a
closed shelf here, too, though, Tim."
"Could you tell me why? I know about the library books.
Some of them might scare people, and some are"
"Some of my books might scare you too, Tim. I'll tell you
a little about abnormal psychology if you like, one of these
days, and then I think you'll see that until you're actually
trained to deal with such cases, you'd be better off not know-
ing too much about them."
"I don't want to be morbid," agreed Tim. "All right. I'll
read only what you give me. And from now on I'll tell you
things. There was more than the newspaper, you know."
"I thought as much. Do you want to go on with your tale?"
"It started when I first wrote a letter to a newspaperof
course, under a pen name. They printed it. For a while I had
a high old time of ita letter almost every day, using all
sorts of pen names. Then I branched out to magazines, let-
ters to the editor again. And stories1 tried stories."
He looked a little doubtfully at Welles, who said only:
"How old were you when you sold the first story?"
"Eight," said Timothy. "And when the check came, with
my name on it, 'T. Paul,' I didn't know what in the world to
do."
"That's a thought. What did you do?"
"There was a sign in the window of the bank. I always
read signs, and that one came back to my mind. 'Banking By
Mail.' You can see I was pretty desperate. So I got the name
of a bank across the Bay and I wrote themon my type-
writerand said I wanted to start an account, and here was
a check to start it with. Oh, I was scared stiff, and had to
keep saying to myself that, after all, nobody could do much
to me. It was my own money. But you don't know what it's
like to be only a small boy I They sent the check back to me
and I died ten deaths when I saw it. But the letter explained.
I hadn't endorsed it. They sent me a blank to fill out about
myself. I didn't know how many lies I dared to tell. But it
was my money and I had to get it. If I could get it into the
bank, then some day I could get it out. I gave my business
as 'author' and I gave my age as twenty-four. I thought
that was awfully old."
"I'd like to see the story. Do you have a copy of the maga-
zine around?"
"Yes," said Tim. "But nobody noticed it-I mean, 'T. Paul'
could be anybody. And when I saw magazines for writers on
the newsstands and bought them, I got on to the way to use
a pen name on the story and my own name and address up
in the comer. Before that I used a pen name and some-
times never got the things back or heard about them. Some-
times I did, though."
"What then?"
"Oh, then I'd endorse the check payable to me and sign
the pen name, and then sign my own name under it. Was I
scared to do that! But it was my money."
"Only stories?"
"Articles, too. And things. That's enough of that for today.
Only1 just wanted to saya while ago, T. Paul told the
bank he wanted to switch some of the money over to a
checking account. To buy books by mail, and such. So, I
could pay you. Dr. Welles " with sudden formality.
"No, Tim," said Peter Welles firmly. "The pleasure is all
mine. What I want is to see the story that was published
when you were eight. And some of the other things that
made T. Paul rich enough to keep a consulting psychiatrist
on the payroll. And, for the love of Pete, will you tell me
how all this goes on without your grandparents' knowing a
thing about it?"
"Grandmother thinks I send in box tops and fill out cou-
pons," said Tim. "She doesn't bring in the mail. She says her
little boy gets such a big bang out of that little chore. Any-
way that's what she said when I was eight. I played mail-
man. And there were box tops1 showed them to her, until
she said, about the third time, that really she wasn't greatly
interested in such matters. By now she has the habit of wait-
ing for me to bring in the mail."
Peter Welles thought that was quite a day of revelation.
He spent a quiet evening at home, holding his head and
groaning, trying to take it all in.
And that 1. Q.120, nonsense! The boy had been holding
out on him. Tim's reading had obviously included enough
about 1. Q. tests, enough puzzles and oddments in maga-
zines and such, to enable him to stall successfully. What
could he do if he would co-operate?
Welles made up his mind to find out.
He didn't find out. Timothy Paul went swiftly through
the whole range of Superior Adult tests without a failure of
any sort. There were no tests yet devised that could measure
his intelligence. While he was still writing his age with one
figure, Timothy Paul had faced alone, and solved alone,
problems that would have baffled the average adult. He had
adjusted to the hardest task of allthat of appearing to be a
fairly normal, B-average small boy.
And it must be that there was more to find out about him.
What did he write? And what did he do besides read and
write, learn carpentry and breed cats and magnificently fool
his whole world?
When Peter Welles had read some of Tim's writings, he
was surprised to find that the stories the boy had written
were vividly human, the product of close observation of
human nature. The articles, on the other hand, were closely
reasoned and showed thorough study and research. Appar-
ently Tim read every word of several newspapers and a
score or more of periodicals.
"Oh, sure," said Tim, when questioned. "I read every-
thing. I go back once in a while and review old ones, too."
"If you can write like this," demanded Welles, indicating
a magazine in which a staid and scholarly article had ap-
peared, "and this"this was a man-to-man political article
giving the arguments for and against a change in the whole
Congressional system"then why do you always talk to me
in the language of an ordinary stupid schoolboy?"
"Because 1m only a boy," replied Timothy. "What would
happen if I went around talking like that?"
"You might risk it with me. You've showed me these
things."
"I'd never dare to risk talking like that. I might forget and
do it again before others. Besides, I can't pronounce half
the words."
"What!"
"I never look up a pronunciation," explained Timothy. "In
case I do slip and use a word beyond the average, I can any-
way hope I didn't say it right."
Welles shouted with laughter, but was sober again as he
realized the implications back of that thoughtfulness.
"You're just like an explorer living among savages," said
the psychiatrist. "You have studied the savages carefully and
tried to imitate them so they won't know there are differ-
ences."
"Something like that," acknowledged Tim.
"That's why your stories are so human," said Welles. "That
one about the awful little girl"
They both chuckled.
"Yes, that was my first story," said Tim. "I was almost
eight, and there was a boy in my class who had a brother,
and the boy next door was the other one, the one who was
picked on."
"How much of the story was true?"
"The first part. I used to see, when I went over there, how
that girl picked on Bill's brother's friend, Steve. She wanted
to play with Steve all the time herself and whenever he
had boys over, she'd do something awful. And Steve's folks
were like I saidthey wouldn't let Steve do anything to a
girl.  When she threw  all  the watermelon  rinds  over the
fence into his yard, he just had to pick them all up and say
nothing back; and she'd laugh at him over the fence. She got
him blamed for things he never did, and when he had work
to do in the yard she'd hang out of her window and scream
at him and make fun. I thought first, what made her act
like that, and then I made up a way for him to get even with
her, and wrote it out the way it might have happened."
"Didn't you pass the idea on to Steve and let him try it?"
"Gosh, no! I was only a little boy. Kids seven don't give
ideas to kids ten. That's the first thing I had to learnto be
always the one that kept quiet, especially if there was any
older boy or girl around, even only a year or two older. I
had to learn to look blank and let my mouth hang open and
say, 1 don't get it,' to almost everything."
"And Miss Page thought it was odd that you had no close
friends of your own age," said Welles. "You must be the
loneliest boy that e"er walked this earth, Tim. You've lived
in hiding like a criminal. But tell me, what are you afraid
of?"
"I'm afraid of being found out, of course. The only way I
can live in this world is in disguiseuntil I'm grown up, at
any rate. At first it was just my grandparents' scolding me
and telling me not to show off, and the way people laughed
if I tried to talk to them. Then I saw how people hate any-
one who is better or brighter or luckier. Some people sort of
trade off; if you're bad at one thing you're good at another,
but they'll forgive you for being good at some things, if
you're not good at others so they can balance it off. They
can beat you at something. You have to strike a balance. A
child has no chance at all. No grownup can stand it to have
a child know anything he doesn't. Oh, a little thing if it
amuses them. But not much of anything. There's an old story
about a man who found himself in a country where every-
one else was blind. I'm like thatbut they shan't put out my
eyes. Ill never let them know I can see anything."
"Do you see things that no grown person can see?"
Tim waved his hand towards the magazines.
"Only like that, I meant. I hear people talking in street
cars and stores, and while they work, and around. I read
about the way they actin the news. I'm like them, just like
them, only I seem about a hundred years oldermore ma-
tured."
"Do you mean that none of them have much sense?"
"I don't mean that exactly. I mean that so few of them
have any, or show it if they do have. They don't even seem to
want to. They're good people in their way, but what could
they make of me? Even when I was seven, I could under-
stand their motives, but they couldn't understand their
own motives. And they're so lazythey don't seem to want
to know or to understand. When I first went to the hbrary for
books, the books I learned from were seldom touched by
any of the grown people. But they were meant for ordinary
grown people. But the grown people didn't want to know
thingsthey only wanted to fool around. I feel about most
people the way my grandmother feels about babies and
puppies. Only she doesn't have to pretend to be a puppy all
the time," Tim added, with a little bitterness.
"You have a friend now, in me."
"Yes, Peter," said Tim, brightening up. "And I have pen
friends, too. People like what I write, because they can't
see I'm only a little boy. When I grow up"
Tim did not finish that sentence. Welles understood, now,
some of the fears that Tim had not dared to put into words
at all. When he grew up, would he be as far beyond all
other grownups as he had, all his life, been above his con-
temporaries? The adult friends whom he now met on fairly
equal termswould they then, too, seem like babies or pup-
pies?
Peter did not dare to voice the thought, either. Still less
did he venture to hint at another thought. Tim, so far, had
no great interest in girls; they existed for him as part of the
human race, but there would come a time when Tim would
be a grown man and would wish to marry. And where
among the puppies could he find a mate?
"When you're grown up, we'll still be friends," said Peter.
"And who are the others?"
It turned out that Tim had pen friends all over the world.
He played chess by correspondencea game he never dared
to play in person, except when he forced hipiself to move
the pieces about idly and let his opponent win at least half
the time. He had, also, many friends who had read some-
thing he had written, and had written to him about it, thus
starting a correspondence-friendship. After the first two or
three of these, he had started some on his own account, al-
ways with people who lived at a great distance. To most of
these he gave a name which, although not false, looked it.
That was Paul T. Lawrence. Lawrence was his middle name;
and with a comma after the Paul, it was actually his own
name. He had a post office box under that name, for which
T. Paul of the large bank account was his reference.
"Pen friends abroad? Do you know languages?"
Yes, Tim did. He had studied by correspondence, also;
many universities gave extension courses in that manner,
and lent the student records to play so that he could learn
the correct pronunciation. Tim had taken several such
courses, and learned other languages from books. He kept
all these languages in practice by means of the letters to
other lands and the replies which came to him.
"I'd buy a dictionary, and then I'd write to the mayor of
some town, or to a foreign newspaper, and ask them to ad-
vertise for some pen friends to help me learn the language.
We'd exchange souvenirs and things."
Nor was Welles in the least surprised to find that Timothy
had also taken other courses by correspondence. He had
completed, within three years, more than half the subjects
offered by four separate universities, and several other
courses, the most recent being Architecture. The boy, not
yet fourteen, had competed a full course in that subject,
and had he been able to disguise himself as a full-grown
man, could have gone out at once and built almost any-
thing you'd like to name, for he also knew much of the
trades involved.
"It always said how long an average student took, and
I'd take that long," said Tim, "so, of course, I had to be
working several schools at the same time."
"And carpentry at the playground summer school?"
"Oh, yes. But there I couldn't do too much, because peo-
ple could see me. But I learned how, and it made a good
cover-up, so I could make cages for the cats, and all that
sort of thing. And many boys are good with their hands. I
like to work with my hands. I built my own radio, tooit
gets all the foreign stations, and that helps me with my lan-
guages."
"How did you figure it out about the cats?" said Welles.
"Oh, there had to be recessives, that's all. The Siamese
coloring was a recessive, and it had to be mated with
another recessive. Black was one possibility, and white was
another, but I started with black because I liked it better. I
might try white too, but I have so much else on my mind"
He broke off suddenly and would say no more.
Their next meeting was by prearrangement at Tim's work-
shop. Welles met the boy after school and they walked to
Tim's home together; there the boy unlocked his door and
snapped on the lights.
Welles looked around with interest. There was a bench,
a tool chest. Cabinets, padlocked. A radio, clearly not store-
purchased. A file cabinet, locked. Something on a table,
covered with a cloth. A box in the cornerno, two boxes in
two corners. In each of them was a mother cat with kittens.
Both mothers were black Persians.
"This one must be all black Persian," Tim explained. "Her
third litter and never a Siamese marking. But this one carries
both recessives in her. Last time she had a Siamese short-
haired kitten. This morning1 had to go to school. Let's see."
They bent over the box where the new-born kittens lay.
One kitten was like the mother. The other two were
Siamese-Persian; a male and a female.
"You've done it again, Timi" shouted Welles. "Congratu-
lations!"
They shook hands in jubilation.
"I'll write it in the record," said the boy blissfully.
In a nickel book marked "Compositions" Tim's left hand
added the entries. He had used the correct symbolsFi,
Fs, Fs; Ss, Bl.
"The dominants in capitals," he explained, "B for black,
and S for short hair; the recessives in small letterss for
Siamese, I for long hair. Wonderful to write II or ss again,
Peteri Twice more. And the other kitten is carrying the Sia-
mese marking as a recessive."
He closed the book in triumph.
"Now," and he marched to the covered thing on the table,
"My latest big secret,"
Tim lifted the cloth carefully and displayed a beautifully
built doll house. No, a model houseWelles corrected him-
self swiftly. A beautiful model, andyes, built to scale.
"The roof comes off. See, it has a big storage room and a
room for a play room or a maid or something. Then I lift off
the attic"
"Good heavens!" cried Peter Welles. "Any little girl would
give her soul for this!"
"I used fancy wrapping papers for the wallpapers. I wove
the rugs on a little hand loom," gloated Timothy. "The furni-
ture's just like real, isn't it? Some I bought; that's plastic.
Some I made of construction paper and things. The curtains
were the hardest; but I couldn't ask grandmother to sew
them-"
"Why not?" the amazed doctor managed to ask.
"She might recognize this afterwards," said Tim, and he
lifted off the upstairs floor.
"Recognize it? You haven't showed it to her? Then when
would she see it?"
"She might not," admitted Tim. "But I don't like to take
some risks."
"That's a very livable floor plan you've used," said Welles,
bending closer to examine the house in detail.
"Yes, I thought so. It's awful how many house plans leave
no clear wall space for books or pictures. Some of them have
doors placed so you have to detour around the dining room
table every time you go from the living room to the kitchen,
or so that a whole corner of a room is good for nothing, with
doors at all angles. Now, I designed this house to"
"You designed it, Timi"
"Why, sure. Oh, I seeyou thought I built it from blue-
prints I'd bought. My first model home, I did, but the archi-
tecture courses gave me so many ideas that I wanted to see
how they would look. Now, the cellar and game room"
Welles came to himself an hour later, and gasped when
he looked at his watch.
"It's too late. My patient has gone home again by this
time. I may as well stayhow about the paper route?"
"I gave that up. Grandmother offered to feed the cats as
soon as I gave her the kitten. And I wanted the time for
this. Here are the pictures of the house."
The color prints were very good.
"I'm sending them and an article to the magazines," said
Tim. "This time I'm T. L. Paul. Sometimes I used to pretend
all the different people I am were talking togetherbut now
I talk to you instead. Peter."
"Will it bother the cats if I smoke? Thanks. Nothing I'm
likely to set on fire, I hope? Put the house together and let
me sit here and look at it. I want to look in through the
windows. Put its lights on. There."
The young architect beamed, and snapped on the little
lights.
"Nobody can see in here. I got Venetian blinds; and when
I work in here, I even shut them sometimes."
"If I'm to know all about you, I'll have to go through the
alphabet from A to Z," said Peter Welles. "This is Architec-
ture. What else in the A's?"
"Astronomy. I showed you those articles. My calculations
proved correct. Astrophysics1 got A in the course, but
haven't done anything original so far. Art, no. I can't paint
or draw very well, except mechanical drawing. I've done all
the Merit Badge work in scouting, all through the alphabet."
"Darned if I can see you as a Boy Scout," protested
Welles.
"I'm a very good Scout. I have almost as many badges as
any other boy my age in the troop. And at camp I do as well
as most city boys."
"Do you do a good turn every day?"
"Yes," said Timothy. "Started that when I first read about
Scouting1 was a Scout at heart before I was old enough to
be a Cub. You know. Peter, when you're very young, you
take all that seriously about the good deed every day, and
the good habits and ideals and all that. And then you get
older and it begins to seem funny and childish and posed
and artificial, and you smile in a superior way and make
jokes. But there is a third step, too, when you take it all
seriously again. People who make fun of the Scout Law are
doing the boys a lot of harm; but those who believe in things
like that don't know how to say so, without sounding prig-
gish and platitudinous. I'm going to do an article on it be-
fore long."
"Is the Scout Law your religionif I may put it that way?"
"No," said Timothy. "But 'a Scout is Reverent.' Once I tried
to study the churches and find out what was the truth. I
wrote letters to pastors of all denominationsall those in the
phone book and the newspaperwhen I was on a vacation
in the East, I got the names, and then wrote after I got back.
I couldn't write to people here in the city. I said I wanted to
know which church was true, and expected them to write
to me and tell me about theirs, and argue with me, you
know. I could read library books, and all they had to do
was recommend some, I told them, and then correspond
with me a little about them."
"Did they?"
"Some of them answered," said Tim, "but nearly all of
them told me to go to somebody near me. Several said they
were very busy men. Some gave me the name of a few
books, but none of them told me to write again, and . . .
and I was only a little boy. Nine years old, so I couldn't talk
to anybody. When I thought it over, I knew that I couldn't
very well join any church so young, unless it was my grand-
parents' church. I keep on going thereit is a good church
and it teaches a great deal of truth, I am sure. I'm reading
all I can find, so when I am old enough I'll know what I must
do. How old would you say I should be. Peter?"
"College age," replied Welles. "You are going to college?
By then, any of the pastors would talk to youexcept those
that are too busy I"
"It's a moral problem, really. Have I the right to wait? But
I have to wait. It's like telling lies1 have to tell some lies,
but I hate to. If I have a moral obligation to join the church
as soon as I find it, well, what then? I can't until I'm eighteen
or twenty?"
"If you can't, you can't. I should think that settles it. You
are legally a minor, under the control of your grandparents,
and while you might claim the right to go where your con-
science leads you, it would be impossible to justify and ex-
plain your choice without giving yourself away entirely
just as you are obliged to go to school until you are at least
eighteen, even though you know more than most Ph.D.'s.
It's all part of the game, and He who made you must under-
stand that."
"I'll never tell you any lies," said Tim. "I was getting so
desperately lonelymy pen pals didn't know anything about
me really. I told them only what was right for them to know.
Little kids are satisfied to be with other people, but when
you get a little older you have to make friends, really."
"Yes, that's a part of growing up. You have to reach out to
others and share thoughts with them. You've kept to your-
self too long as it is."
"It wasn't that I wanted to. But without a real friend, it was
only pretense, and I never could let my playmates know
anything about me. I studied them and wrote stories about
them and it was all of them, but it was only a tiny part of
me."
"I'm proud to be your friend, Tim. Every man needs a
friend. I'm proud that you trust me."
Tim patted the .cat a moment in silence and then looked
up with a grin.
"How would you like to hear my favorite joke?" he asked.
"Very much," said the psychiatrist, bracing himself for al-
most any major shock.
"It's records. I recorded this from a radio program."
Welles listened. He knew little of music, but the sym-
phony which he heard pleased him. The announcer praised
it  highly  in  little  speeches  before  and  after  each  move-
ment. Timothy giggled.
"Like it?"
"Very much. I don't see the joke."
"I wrote it."
"Tim, you're beyond me! But I still don't get the joke."
"The joke is that I did it by mathematics. I calculated
what ought to sound like joy, grief, hope, triumph, and all
the rest, andit was just after I had studied harmony; you
know how mathematical that is."
Speechless, Welles nodded.
"I worked out the rhythms from different metabolisms-
the way you function when under the influences of these
emotions; the way your metabolic rate varies, your heart-
beats and respiration and things. I sent it to the director of
that orchestra, and he didn't get the idea that it was a joke-
of course I didn't explainhe produced the music. I get
nice royalties from it, too."
"You'll be the death of me yet," said Welles in deep sin-
cerity. "Don't tell me anything more today; I couldn't take
it. 1m going home. Maybe by tomorrow I'll see the joke and
come back to laugh. Tim, did you ever fail at anything?"
"There are two cabinets full of articles and stories that
didn't sell. Some of them I feel bad about. There was the
chess story. You know, in 'Through the Looking Glass,' it
wasn't a very good game, and you couldn't see the relation
of the moves to the story very well."
"I never could see it at all."
"I thought it would be fun to take a championship game
and write a fantasy about it, as if it were a war between
two little old countries, with knights and foot-soldiers, and
fortified walls in charge of captains, and the bishops couldn't
fight like warriors, and, of course, the queens were women-
people don't kill them, not in hand-to-hand fighting and . . .
well, you see? I wanted to make up the attacks and captures,
and keep the people alive, a fairytale war you see, and make
the strategy of the game and the strategy of the war coin-
cide, and have everything fit. It took me ever so long to
work it out and write it. To understand the game as a chess
game and then to translate it into human actions and mo-
tives, and put speeches to it to fit different kinds of people.
I'll show it to you.  I loved it.  But nobody would print  it.
Chess players don't like fantasy, and nobody else likes
chess. You have to have a very special kind of mind to like
both. But it was a disappointment. I hoped it would be pub-
lished, because the few people who like that sort of thing
would like it very much."
"1m sure I'll like it."
"Well, if you do like that sort of thing, it's what you've
been waiting all your life in vain for. Nobody else has done
it." Tim stopped, and blushed as red as a beet. "I see what
grandmother means. Once you get started bragging, there's
no end to it. I'm sorry. Peter."
"Give me the story. I don't mind, Timbrag all you like
to me; I understand. You might blow up if you never ex-
pressed any of your legitimate pride and pleasure in such
achievements. What I don't understand is how you have
kept it all under for so long."
"I had to," said Tim.
The story was all its young author had claimed. Welles
chuckled as he read it, that evening. He read it again, and
checked all the moves and the strategy of them. It was
really a fine piece of work. Then he thought of the sym-
phony, and this time he was able to laugh. He sat up until
after midnight, thinking about the boy. Then he took a
sleeping pill and went to bed.
The next day he went to see Tim's grandmother. Mrs.
Davis received him graciously.
"Your grandson is a very interesting boy," said Peter
Welles carefully. "I'm asking a favor of you. I am making a
study of various boys and girls in this district, their abilities
and backgrounds and environment and character traits and
things like that. No names will ever be mentioned, of course,
but a statistical report will be kept, for ten years or longer,
and some case histories might later be published. Could
Timothy be included?"
"Timothy is such a good, normal little boy, I fail to see
what would be the purpose of including him in such a sur-
vey."
"That is just the point. We are not interested in malad-
)usted persons in this study. We eliminate all psychotic boys
and girls. We are interested in boys and girls who succeed
in facing their youthful problems and making satisfactory
adjustments to life. If we could study a selected group of
such children, and follow their progress for the next ten
years at leastand then publish a summary of the findings,
with no names used"
"In that case, I see no objection," said Mrs. Davis.
"If you'd tell me, then, something about Timothy's parents
their history?"
Mrs. Davis settled herself for a good long talk.
"Timothy's mother, my only daughter, Emily," she began,
"was a lovely girl. So talented. She played the violin charm-
ingly. Timothy is like her, in the face, but has his father's
dark hair and eyes. Edwin had very fine eyes."
"Edwin was Timothy's father?"
"Yes. The young people met while Emily was at college
in the East. Edwin was studying atomics there."
"Your daughter was studying music?"
"No; Emily was taking the regular liberal arts course. I
can tell you little about Edwin's work, but after their mar-
riage he returned to it and . . . you understand, it is pain-
ful for me to recall this, but their deaths were such a blow
to me. They were so young."
Welles held his pencil ready to write.
"Timothy has never been told. After all, he must grow up
in this world, and how dreadfully the world has changed
in the past thirty years. Dr. Welles! But you would not re-
member the day before 1945- Yo" have heard, no doubt of
the terrible explosion in the atomic plant, when they were
trying to make a new type of bomb? At the time, none of
the workers seemed to be injured. They believed the pro-
tection was adequate. But two years later they were all
dead or dying."
Mrs. Davis shook her head, sadly. Welles held his breath,
bent his head, scribbled.
 "Tim was born just fourteen months after the explosion,
fourteen months to the day. Everyone still thought that no
harm had been done. But the radiation had some effect
which was very slow1 do not understand such things-
Edwin died, and then Emily came home to us with the boy.
In a few months she, too, was gone.
"Oh, but we do not sorrow as those who have no hope. It
is hard to have lost her. Dr. Welles, but Mr. Davis and I
have reached the time of life when we can look forward to
seeing her again. Our hope is to live until Timothy is old
enough to fend for himself. We were so anxious about him;
but you see he is perfectly normal in every way."
"Yes."
"The specialists made all sorts of tests. But nothing is
wrong with Timothy."
The psychiatrist stayed a little longer, took a few more
notes, and made his escape as soon as he could. Going
straight to the school, he had a few words with Miss Page
and then took Tim to his office, where he told him what he
had learned.
"You meanI'm a mutation?"
"A mutant. Yes, very likely you are. I don't know. But I
had to tell you at once."
"Mdst be a dominant,, too," said Tim, "coming out this
way in the first generation. You meanthere may be more?
I'm not the only one?" he added in great excitement. "Oh,
Peter, even if I grow up past you I won't have to be lonely?"
There. He had said it.
"It could be, Tim. There's nothing else in your family
that could account for you."
"But I have never found anyone at all like me. I would
have known. Another boy or girl my agelike me1 would
have known."
"You came West with your mother. Where did the others
go, if they existed? The parents must have scattered every-
where, back to their homes all over the country, all over the
world. We can trace them, though. And. Tim, haven't you
thought it's just a little bit strange that with all your pen
names and various contacts, people don't insist more on
meeting you? Everything gets done by mail? It's almost as
if the editors are used to people who hide. It's almost as if
people are used to architects and astronomers and compos-
ers whom nobody ever sees, who are only names in cai-e of
other names at post office boxes. There's a chancejv.st a
chance, mind youthat there are others. If there are, we'll
find them,"
"I'll work out a code they will understand." said Tim  his
face screwed up in concentration. "In articlesI'll do it-
several magazines and in letters I can inclose copiessome
of my pen friends may be the ones"
"III hunt up the recordsthey must be on file somewhere
psychologists and psychiatrists know all kinds of tricks
we can make some excuse to trace them allthe birth rec-
ords"
Both of them were talking at once, but all the while Peter
Welles was thinking sadly, perhaps he had lost Tim now.
If they did find those others, those to whom Tim rightfully
belonged, where would poor Peter be? Outside, among the
puppies-
Timothy Paul looked up and saw Peter Welles's eyes on
him. He smiled.
"You were my first friend. Peter, and you shall be forever,"
said Tim. "No matter what, no matter who."
"But we must look for the others," said Peter.
"I'll never forget who helped me," said Tim.
/ An ordinary boy of thirteen may say such a thing sin-
cerely, and a week later have forgotten all about it. But
Peter Welles was content. Tim would never forget. Tim
would be his friend always. Even when Timothy Paul and
those like him should unite in a maturity undreamed of, to
control the world if they chose. Peter Welles would be Tim's
friendnot a puppy, but a beloved friendas a loyal dog
loved by a good master, is never cast out.