ime.

It was this that made her say, "I wish you boys would suggest what sort
of stunt our district should give on stunt night; you know the time is
getting short."

"That's a fact," exclaimed Marty, sitting up. "Stunt night is to-morrow,
and our delegation has to fix up the stunt for the Fort Adams District.
Let's get to work on something. We've been mooning long enough."

For though Marty never thought as quickly as Marcia, he too felt some
instinct of fear lest by an unfortunate word they should break the spell
of Joe Carbrook's interest in the "Big Idea," and promptly the four were
deep in a study of stunts.

To the uninitiated, stunt night at the Institute is without rime or
reason, but not to those in charge who are looking ahead to Sunday. They
know that the converging and cumulative psychic forces which the
Institute invariably produces must be tempered, along about midway of
the week, by some sharp contrast in the communal life. Otherwise, the
group, like over-trained athletes, will grow emotionally stale before
the week is done, and at the end of that is let-down and flatness. Hence
"stunt night."

In the early Institute years it was easy, as in some places it still is,
for stunt night to be no more than clowning, witless and cheap; but
there is a distinct tendency to exercise the imagination in producing
more self-respecting efforts.

Cartwright, happily, is one of the forward-looking Institutes, and stunt
night, crowded with most excellent fooling, produced two or three
creditable and thought-provoking performances. One of them deserves
remembering for its own sake. Besides, it is a part of this story.

The home missions class furnished the inspiration for it, and called it
"Scum o' the Earth," an impromptu immigration pageant. A boy who had
memorized Schauffler's poem stood off stage and recited it, while group
after group of "immigrants" in the motley of the steerage passed slowly
through the improvised Ellis Island sifting process. It was all
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 Thermop