What a luncheon he had! He was becoming a Lucullus at mental feasts.
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.