make-believe, of course, all but one tense moment. Then Phil Khamis
stepped on the platform, incarnating in his own proper person the poet's
apostrophised Greek boy:

"Stay, are we doing you wrong,
Young fellow from Socrates' land?
You, like a Hermes so lissome and strong,
Fresh from the master Praxiteles' hand?
So you're of Spartan birth?
Descended, perhaps, from one of the band--
Deathless in story and song--
Who combed their long hair at Thermopylae's pass?
Ah, I forget the straits, alas!
More tragic than theirs, more compassion-worth,
That have doomed you to march in our 'immigrant class'
Where you're nothing but 'scum o' the earth!'"

The audience was caught unaware. It had been vastly interested in the
spectacle, as a spectacle, the more because the unusual Americanization
class which produced it had attracted general attention. But, Phil
Khamis, everybody's friend, standing there, an immigrant of the
immigrants, smiling his wistful friendly smile, was a picture as
dramatic as it was unexpected. First there were ejaculations of
astonishment and surprise. Then came the moment of understanding, and a
shining-eyed stillness fell on all. Then, what a shout! J.W. led off,
the unashamed tears falling from his brimming eyes.

On Saturday morning J.W. was sitting beside Phil Khamis at Morning
Watch. The leader had asked for answers to the question "Why did I come
to the Institute?" getting several responses of the conventional sort.