“Shenannygagging” the Honor System

The argument may be advanced that we should have had no particular difficulty in passing examinations, seeing that the “honor system” was not in vogue in the Princeton of the eighties. This unworthy insinuation I indignantly repel.

In the first place, we did not designate the practice of receiving outside help at written examinations by the coarse and unpleasantly sounding name of cheating; “shenannygagging” was the euphemistic term invariably employed, and it possessed the advantage of not being clearly understood by the tribe of parents and guardians.

Secondly, it was not permitted to “shenannygag” for grade, i.e., high marks; and anyone guilty of this practice was quickly denounced and effectually ostracized. Personally, I never heard of a student obtaining scholastic honors unless it was strictly off his own bat. On the other hand, it was tacitly understood that the weaker brethren might do just enough “shenannygagging” to secure a pass mark; and even that was at their mortal peril, for Matt of the vigilant eye sat at the back of the room, and generally he had one of two assistants with him on the job. This made it a game of wits between the would-be “shenannygaggers” and the proctors, and undoubtedly helped to sharpen the intellectual faculties; in the end, you often expended as much good cerebral matter as though you had polled down the subject in the ordinary, honest, humdrum way, also it was more amusing. The professor was an enemy who was trying to do you; ergo, it was your duty to do him first. I recall a case in point.

One of my classmates possessed a peculiar mind, the kind that readily absorbed all sorts of extraneous and generally useless information, but which balked hopelessly at the acquisition of knowledge prescribed by the curriculum; for instance, he could box the compass forward and backward with incredible facility, and he never really succeeded in understanding the Rule of Three. “Math” in any form was obnoxious to Jones, as I will call him, and “fresh” geometry, under Tutor Halstead, was his particular black beast. Just before the final examination in that subject Jones realized that his condition was perilous in the extreme; even the most expert “shenannygagging” might not save him. So in mute despair he betook himself to the room of a fellow student; we will call him Smith for short. Now Smith was a first-division man and a regular shark at mathematics; I think Jones had a vague idea that by immersing himself in a mathematical atmosphere he might be lucky enough to swallow some of the germs.

That evening Smith was high feather. He explained to Jones that in nosing about the mathematical alcove of the library he had come across a curious problem in applied geometry. “Just the sort of thing that devil (meaning Halstead) might be moved to put upon the paper as an optional,” he added.

“What was it?” inquired Jones in a last-hope kind of voice.

“How far would a man have to be above the surface of the earth in order to see one-third of its surface?”

There was a picturesque quality about this proposition that somehow appealed to Jones’s imagination. “Did you work it out?” he asked.

“Yes, got it right here.”
“Show me.”

And Smith, being the kindest of souls, did show him. It took two solid hours to hammer the demonstration into Jones’s skull, but at the end of that time he knew it backwards.

The examination came off, and there were ten required questions and five optionals on the paper. Jones sloshed through the ten required as best he could, but when he had told all he knew he was still on the anxious seat; at the most liberal computation his paper was not worth more than a percentage of forty-five, and that would not pass him. Of course it had not occurred to him to even glance at the optionals he was not working for a grade.

Finally he determined to end the agony and take his medicine; he half rose to hand in his miserable “book,” when his eye happened to light on the opposite page of the examination paper, where the loathly optionals disported themselves, and there – “How far above the surface of the earth,” etc.

Jones couldn’t write it down fast enough. Then he walked out as though upon air.

A few days later he received a message from Halstead asking him to call. Now Jones would never have taken a prize at a violet show, but the summons rather shook his nerve; he went in fear and trembling. However, Halstead quickly reassured him. “I’ll tell you now you’ve passed,” he began. “But how did you do it?” You and Smith were the only two men in the class to solve that optional; even Henry Crew didn’t get it. And you were on the opposite side of the room from Smith. Now own up.”

And Jones, disregarding in his joy the little innuendo about his being seated miles away from his fellow senior-wrangler, did make full confession.

“That’s all right,” grinned Halstead. “Trot along.”

Our “honor system” was responsible for many another humorous situation, but the classic example of the old saw that kissing goes by favor happened in one of our examinations in chemistry. Two of our “idle apprentices” chanced to be sitting side by side, and neither was overburdened with trustworthy information on the subject. So in default of any other assistance they were forced to “shenannygag” off each other; as a natural result their papers were virtually identical. Then, out of sheer bravado, they recklessly exchanged papers, each man handing in the other’s “book.” The conscientious professor who marked the examination gave Mr. A fifty-four and Mr. B. forty-eight; of course, fifty was the passing mark. Even at this late day I should not care toe mention the word “chemistry” to Mr. B.

This was originally published in the May 24, 1916 issue of PAW.