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? Another boy was called upon to sing after Harry Venniker; then Gerald. He hesitated a little, and did not begin when the pianist began. ‘Look sharp, I say,’ said Tracy; ‘we can’t wait here all night.’ In a low tone, rather tremulously, he sang a verse; then, as he approached the words of the chorus, his voice showed signs of faltering. At the second line he stopped; the pianist left him behind again. The boys all looked at him in surprise. ‘I tell you what it is, youngster,’ said Tracy, ‘every new chap has got to sing a verse; that’s the rule of the house; and if you don’t choose to sing, it will be the worse for you.’ Gerald looked round the Hall as the victim at an auto-da-fé may often have cast his eyes around the ring of spectators without discerning a movement of sympathy on any face; the boys did not even understand what his difficulty was. ‘Now, then,’ said Tracy; and the boy at the piano began the chorus once more. Gerald repeated the words:-- ‘You may laugh ... said Uncle Sam, But ... I ... do not ... care;’ then he broke down, hid his face in his hands, and rushed from the Hall. The boys sat gazing at each other. Nobody spoke. ‘What the devil is the matter with the young fool?’ said Tracy at last. ‘Don’t you see?’ suggested another fifth form boy, Coleridge by name, next in seniority to Tracy, and of higher character, ‘he didn’t like the little word--d, a, m, n. That’s the fence which he refused.’