I was dazed, and put my hand to my jaw. I realized that my head was aching, and that the place I touched was sore. “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.” I thought for a moment. “Tell me, is there a convention of the Brigade—that is, I mean, of the American Legion in Western City now?”
“No,” said the other; “at least, not that I've heard of. They've just held their big convention in Kansas City.”