On the night before the drawing was ordered in New York the leading speaker had swept the crowd off their feet by the daring words with which he closed his appeal: "We will resist this attempt of Black Republicans and Abolitionists to force the children of the poor into the ranks they dare not enter. Will you give any more of your sons to be food for vultures on the hills of Virginia? Will you allow them to be torn from your firesides and driven as dumb cattle into the mouths of Southern cannon? If you are slaves, yes,----if you are freemen, no!" When the lottery wheel began to turn off its fatal names at the Government Draft Office at the corner of Forty-sixth Street and Third Avenue on the morning of July 14th, a sullen, determined mob packed the streets in front of the building. Among them stood hundreds of women whose husbands, sons and brothers were listed on the spinning wheel of black fortune. Their voices were higher and angrier than the men's: "This is a rich man's war--but a poor man's fight----" "Yes, if you've got three hundred dollars you can hire a substitute from the slums----" "But if you happen to be a working man, you can stand up and be shot for these cowards and sneaks!" "Down with the draft!" "To hell with the hirelings and their wheel!" "Smash it----" "Burn the building!" A tough from the East Side waved his hand to the crowd of frenzied men and women: "Come on, boys,----" With a single mighty impulse the mob surged toward the doors, and through them. A sound of smashing glass, blows, curses. A man rushed into the street holding the enrollment books above his head: "Here are your names, men--the list of white slaves!" The mob tore the sheets from his grasp and fell on them like hungry wolves. In ten minutes the books were only scraps of paper trampled into the filth of Third Avenue. Wherever a piece could be seen men and women stamped and spit on it. They smashed the wheel and furniture into kindling wood, piled it in the middle of the room and set fire to it. No policemen or firemen were allowed to approach. Every officer of the law, both civil and military, had been chased and beaten and disappeared. Half the block was in flames before the firemen could break through and reach the burning buildings. Down the Avenue, the maddened mob swept with resistless impulse, jelling, cursing, shouting its defiance. "Down with the Abolitionists!" "Hang Horace Greeley on a sour apple tree!" "To the _Tribune_ Office!" Howard, a reporter of the _Tribune_, was recognized: "Kill him!" "Hang him!" The mob seized the reporter, dragged him to a lamp post and were about to put the rope around his neck when a blow from a cobblestone felled him to the sidewalk, the blood trickling down his neck. A man bending over his body, shouted to the crowd: "He's dead--we'll take the body away!" A friend helped and they carried him into a store and saved his life.