He opened his eyes. At first he could see nothing, for the bright sun of the Orient was shining full upon him.
He knew not what had happened.
After a bit he began to realize that he was lying flat on his back in a narrow street, while around him at a little distance were standing many strange men. They were gazing at him in contempt and laughing at his misery. To him in his agony their faces seemed the faces of fiends.
A feeling of resentment and anger lay hold upon him. It infuriated him because they could stand about and mock him in his wretchedness.
“You dog!” he tried to cry; but the hissing gasp that came from his lips was inarticulate.
One of the crowd stepped out and poked the boy with his foot. Then he lifted his hand to his mouth and threw back his head, as if drinking, after which he made a few staggering steps.
The crowd roared with laughter.
For all of his condition, Dick understood that pantomime. The crowd thought him drunk.
But what had happened to him? Why was he lying there in that wretched street, with the fierce sun beating on him?
He closed his eyes and tried to remember what had taken place. His effort carried him back to Fardale. For the time being he fancied he had been engaged in a desperate game of football, and in the fearful line-bucking clash he had been injured. That was it. He was lying on the football field. The narrow street, the queer, gray houses, and the mocking fiends who laughed at his misery were the hallucinations of his shocked brain.