Gerald Eversley's Friendship: A Study in Real Life

by J. E. C. Welldon

It was rumoured among the smaller boys of the house (though with what truth was not known) that Stanley, the captain of the Eleven, had announced his intention of making Harry Venniker his fag, and had in fact used his personal influence to prevent his being chosen by any Sixth Form boy higher in the school than himself. Whether that was so or not, it turned out that Harry had not yet been chosen when it came to Stanley’s turn to make his choice, and he uttered the momentous words ‘I’ll have that chap, Venniker.’ Meanwhile, as the choosing of the fags proceeded, it became probable that Gerald Eversley would be left to the last. No Sixth Form boy knew him or was interested in choosing him. He saw one companion after another named and taken from his side. He was left. The ignominy of being constantly passed over was like ‘the iron entering into his soul.’ He hoped, he ardently prayed, that he might not be left to the very last. But still the election went on, and still his name was not called. At length came the terrible moment when he remained alone. All eyes in the Hall were fixed on him. It fell to a Sixth Form boy named Browne—a boy who was not in any way conspicuous—to ‘spot’ the last fag.

‘I suppose I must have this fellow,’ he said contemptuously. ‘What’s your name—you in the “stick-ups”?’

There was a momentary profound silence in the Hall. The attention of all the boys had been called to the disgrace which Mr. Eversley’s ignorance of the rules of dress had brought upon his son. A boy in the fourth form whispered to his neighbour, who was also in the fourth form, that his nickname was sure to be ‘Stick-ups.’

‘Eversley, sir,’ he replied at last amidst a general outburst of laughter; for in his confusion he had addressed Browne as if he were a master. ‘Well,’ said Browne, ‘I see I’m reduced to you,’ then turning with a smile to his colleagues in the Sixth Form, he added, ‘Eversley’s my horse—rather a dark one.’

In this way Gerald Eversley became a fag. The ‘spotting’ of the fags being now concluded, and their social destiny decided for the term, the Sixth Form, according to custom, left the Hall.

The boys who were not in the Sixth Form stayed behind, according to custom, for a second ceremony in which (as may be supposed) the inherent dignity of the Sixth Form forbade them to participate. It was called the ‘trying of voices.’ Like the ‘fag-spotting’ it always took place in the Hall on the second evening of the term. It was customary that the boy highest in the school below the Sixth Form, who was known as the captain of Hall, should choose a song: it was played by some boy who possessed sufficient musical knowledge to accomplish a tune on the piano, then the new boys sang it, or some verses of it, in turn. On this occasion the captain of Hall was a boy named Tracy, not a boy who enjoyed a very admirable reputation among his schoolfellows. He had brought down a comic song called ‘Uncle Sam’ which had lately acquired a certain popularity in the London music halls. It described, in language not particularly coarse, but on the other hand not particularly refined, how the hero of the song, Uncle Sam, had maintained an imperturbable demeanour amidst a variety of trials, partly financial, partly social, and partly conjugal, which were related with a good deal of detail. Like most songs of similar nature it contained a chorus, sung at the end of every verse by the soloist and then taken up by all the boys. The chorus was in these words:

You may laugh, said Uncle Sam,
But I do not care a d—n;
I’ll be jolly, jolly, jolly as I am.

It is possible that the song is still remembered in some quarters.

The new boys were called upon to sing it, one after another. There were eight new boys in all. The first three of them sang it with more or less success, the second, indeed, less successfully than the other two; for he had no ear, and the sounds which issued from his lips bore at the best a dim and distant resemblance to the tune that was being played on the piano. But he persevered to the end, and was loudly cheered. Then the captain of Hall called ‘Venniker.’ Harry Venniker had a good voice; his appearance and manner were prepossessing, and he sat down amidst general applause. The same fourth form boy, who had whispered to his neighbour before, remarked now, though in a less audible tone, that he seemed ‘rather a good sort.’

All this time Gerald Eversley, holding the words of the song in his hand, was in agony of mind. It was not that he could not sing, as he was fond of music, and possessed some little skill upon the organ. But there was a word in the chorus which his scrupulous conscience felt to be wicked. It was not a word that he had known to be used, except once, on a very hot day, by a labourer at Kestercham. But he conceived it to be an offence against God. He had heard his father speak of its solemn and terrible meaning in preaching upon the text—‘He that believeth not shall be damned.’ It was one of the words that he had promised never to use. No doubt he magnified the sinfulness of using it, if sinfulness there were. You who read this story are wiser than he was; you use it, perhaps, and think nothing of it. But would it not be better for you, in the presence of the angels, if your conscience were as pure and sensitive as his?