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 all—that 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. Apparently Tim read every word of several newspapers and a score or more of periodicals.
“Oh, sure,” said Tim, when questioned. “I read everything. 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 appeared, “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 I’m 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 anyway hope I didn’t say it right.”