not a hand was moved by the authorities on their behalf.  They were even spurned and roughly moved out of the way by the swaggering officials.  It was not until the British colony got busy the next day that they received the slightest alleviation, and the majority, being strangers in a strange land, were sent back to England, the Germans mutely concurring in the task.  The wild rush from the Continent may have precipitated congestion at our ports and railway stations, but there never could have been that absolute chaos which reigned at Berlin on the fateful night of the 2nd of August.  Humanity was thrown to the four winds.  The much-vaunted Teuton organisation, system, and scientific control had broken down completely under the first test to which it was subjected.

The terrific downpour caused me to decide to spend a few hours in the comfort of an hotel.  I hailed a taxi and jumped in.  The car was just moving when the door was flung open, I was grabbed by the coat-collar and the next moment found myself skating across the roadway on my back.  I jumped up, somewhat ruffled at this rude handling, to learn that it was an officer who had treated me so unceremoniously.  I had no redress.  Berlin was under martial law.  The uniform of the military came before the mufti of the civilian.

Unable to find another vehicle I turned into the first place I found open.  It was an all-night cafe.  It was packed to suffocation with German soldiers and the feminine underworld of Berlin.  There was a glorious orgy of drunkenness, nauseating and debasing amusement, and the incoherent singing of patriotic songs.  The other sex appeared to have thrown all discretion and womanliness to the winds.  A soldier too drunk to stand was assisted to a chair which he mounted with difficulty.  Here he was supported on either side by two flushed, hilariously-shouting, partially-dressed harpies.  He drew off his belt—­his helmet had already gone somewhere—­and pointing to the badge he shouted thickly and coarsely, “Deutschland, Deutschland, Gott mit uns”—­(Germany, Germany, God is with us).  Metaphorically he was correct, because the words are printed upon the belt of every German soldier, but if the Almighty was with that drunken, debased crowd that night, then Old Nick must have been wearing out his shoes looking for a job.

When the crowd caught sight of me, which was some time after my entrance because I had dropped unseen into a convenient corner, they rushed forward and urged me to participate in their revels.  I declined.  They had been hurling distinctly uncomplimentary and obscene epithets concerning Britain through the room.  My decision was construed into an affront to the All-Highest.  A big, burly, drunken soldier wanted to fight me.  The crowd pressed round keenly anticipating some fun.  We indulged in a spirited altercation, but as neither understood what the other said, words did not lead to blows.  However, the upshot was the intimation that my room was preferred to my company.  This was received with enthusiasm, the result being that I made the sudden acquaintance of the pavement outside once more, being assisted in my hurried departure by fisticuffs and heavy boots.