Editor of The Cauldron: During the street car strike in Denver in 1919, I was a reporter on the Times. On the night when the strikers and “Black Jack” Jerome’s “breakers” met in deadly conflict, I was assigned to the East Denver barns, in which Jerome’s men were fortified.
Toward midnight, the strikers stormed en masse and, during the melée, I dropped with a bullet in my chest. Regaining consciousness, I found myself in the City Hospital. Kneeling beside my bed was my wife—Estelle. I tried to move.
“Lie still, dear,” she said, rising. “You must keep very quiet. They are going to probe for the bullet.”
Upon reaching the operating room, the ether instantly choked me into unconsciousness. Then occurred the strangest thing I have ever experienced. I seemed suddenly transported into a great hall, with tall, shining pillars. All around me were people clothed in white. From afar came the sound of soft music.
But what attracted me was a raised section at one end on which sat a benevolent-looking old gentleman. In his eyes there seemed to be all the sorrow and suffering of a wicked world’s countless centuries. He beckoned to me. When I had come before him he spoke, and in his voice there was the golden ring of perfectly tuned chimes.
“My son,” he said, “you have been brought to judgment. At present you are no longer a part of the earth’s sphere. Back there science is fighting for your life. Whether science succeeds is determined by this court of justice. What have you to say for yourself?”
I trembled and became afraid. Where was I? Was I dead and in some spiritual sphere far removed from the earth?
Then I spoke. I recall, distinctly, that I rambled on at great length, attempting to make a good impression. As I spoke he listened intently, occasionally nodding his head slowly and sadly.
When I finished, he resumed: