On the evening following my arrival in Chicago, I had arranged to take Miss Ryerson to a great recruiting rally in the huge lake-front auditorium building, but when I called at her boarding-house on Wabash Avenue, I found her much disturbed over a strange warning that she had just received. “Something terrible is going to happen tonight,” she said. “There will be riots all over Chicago.” I asked how she knew this and she explained that a deaf and dumb man named Stephen, who took care of the furnace, a man in whose rather pathetic case she had interested herself, had told her. It seems he also took care of the furnace in a neighbouring house which was occupied by a queer German club, really a gathering place of German spies. “He overheard things there and told me,” she said seriously, whereupon I burst out laughing. “What? A deaf and dumb man?” “You know what I mean. He reads the lips and I know the sign language.” The main point was that this furnace man had begged Miss Ryerson not to leave her boardinghouse until he returned. He had gone back to the German club, where he hoped to get definite information of an impending catastrophe. “It’s some big coup they are planning for tonight,” she said. “We must wait here.” So we waited and presently, along Wabash Avenue, with crashing bands and a roar of angry voices, came an anti-militarist socialist parade with floats and banners presenting fire-brand sentiments that called forth jeers and hisses from crowds along the sidewalks or again enthusiastic cheers from other crowds of contrary mind. “You see, there’s going to be trouble,” trembled the girl, clutching my arm. “Read that!” A huge float was rolling past bearing this pledge in great red letters: “I refuse to kill your father. I refuse to slay your mother’s son. I refuse to plunge a bayonet into the breast of your sweetheart’s brother. I refuse to assassinate you and then hide my stained fists in the folds of any flag. I refuse to be flattered into hell’s nightmare by a class of well-fed snobs, crooks and cowards who despise our class socially, rob our class economically and betray our class politically.” At this the hostile crowds roared their approval and disapproval. Also at another float that paraded these words: “What is war? For working-class wives--heartache. For working-class mothers--loneliness. For working-class children--orphanage. For peace--defeat. For death--a harvest. For nations--debts. For bankers--bonds, interest. For preachers on both sides--ferocious prayers for victory. For big manufacturers--business profits. For ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’--boisterous laughter. For Christ--contempt.” I saw that my companion was deeply moved. “It’s all true, what they say, isn’t it?” she murmured. “Yes, it’s true, but--we can’t change the world, we can’t give up our country, our independence. Hello!” A white-faced man had rushed into the parlour, gesticulating violently and making distressing guttural sounds. It was Stephen.