Later, his business affairs and his luncheon terminated, attempting to enter Broadway at Grand Street, he got into a crowd so rough and ungovernable that he couldn’t get out of it—­an unreasonable, obstinate, struggling mass of men, women, and children so hysterical that the wild demonstrations of the day previous, and of the morning, seemed as nothing compared to this dense, far-spread riot.

Broadway from Fourth to Cortlandt Streets was one tossing mass of flags overhead; one mad surge of humanity below.  Through it battalions of almost exhausted police relieved each other in attempting to keep the roadway clear for the passing of the New York 7th on its way to Washington.

Driven, crushed, hurled back by the played-out police, the crowds had sagged back into the cross streets.  But even here the police charged them repeatedly, and the bewildered people turned struggling to escape, stumbled, swayed, became panic-stricken and lost their heads.

A Broadway stage, stranded in Canal Street, was besieged as a refuge.  Toward it Berkley had been borne in spite of his efforts to extricate himself, incidentally losing his hat in the confusion.  At the same moment he heard a quiet, unterrified voice pronounce his name, caught a glimpse of Ailsa Paige swept past on the human wave, set his shoulders, stemmed the rush from behind, and into the momentary eddy created, Ailsa was tossed, undismayed, laughing, and pinned flat against the forward wheel of the stalled stage.

“Climb up!” he said.  “Place your right foot on the hub!—­now the left on the tire!—­now step on my shoulder!”

There came a brutal rush from behind; he braced his back to it; she set one foot on the hub, the other on the tire, stepped to his shoulder, swung herself aloft, and crept up over the roof of the stage.  Here he joined her, offering an arm to steady her as the stage shook under the impact of the reeling masses below.

“How did you get into this mob?” he asked.

“I was caught,” she said calmly, steadying herself by the arm he offered and glancing down at the peril below.  “Celia and I were shopping in Grand Street at Lord and Taylor’s, and I thought I’d step out of the shop for a moment to see if the 7th was coming, and I ventured too far—­I simply could not get back. . . .  And—­thank you for helping me.”  She had entirely recovered her serenity; she released his arm and now stood cautiously balanced behind the driver’s empty seat, looking curiously out over the turbulent sea of people, where already hundreds of newsboys were racing hither and thither shouting an afternoon extra, which seemed to excite everybody within hearing to frenzy.

“Can you hear what they are shouting?” she inquired.  “It seems to make people very angry.”

“They say that the 6th Massachusetts, which passed through here yesterday, was attacked by a mob in Baltimore.”

“Our soldiers!” she said, incredulous.  Then, clenching her small hands:  “If I were Colonel Lefferts of the 7th I’d march my men through Baltimore to-morrow!”