"I--I---" I
stammered. "Wait a minute." And then, "I think I was hurt." I tried
to get my thoughts together. Had I been dreaming; and if so, how
much was dream and how much was reality? "Tell me," I said, "is
there a moving picture theatre near this church?"
"Why, yes," said he. "The Excelsior."
"And--was there some sort of riot?"
"Yes. Some ex-soldiers have been trying to keep people from going in
there. They are still at it. You can hear them."
I listened. Yes, there was a murmur of voices outside. So I realized
what had happened to me. I said: "I was in that mob, and I got
beaten up. I was knocked pretty nearly silly, and fled in here."
"Dear me!" exclaimed the clergyman, his amiable face full of
concern. He took me by my shoulders and helped me to my feet.
"I'm all right now," I said--"except that my jaw is swollen. Tell
me, what time is it?"
"About six o'clock."
"For goodness sake!" I exclaimed. "I dreamed all that in an hour! I
had the strangest dream--even now I can't make up my mind what was
dream and what really happened.
Pages:
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292