Antwerp were being led to the police
station.

At the last moment my rescuer came in the shape of the German
friend of Bentheim, who broke through the mob and whispered in my
ear, "Speak German. Always speak in German, you fool!"

I admitted the soft impeachment.

"Ich bin ein Amerikaner--ein correspondent," I explained to the row
of angry faces; and while my German friend soothed and reassured
his testy compatriots, I moved away, glad enough to escape another
visit to jail. Those personally conducted jail tours were not so bad, I
had found, with a handsome gendarme at your side; but a howling
crowd was altogether another matter.

I reached the capital that night. One of my letters says, a few days
later:--

"The atmosphere is oppressive to the Anglo-Saxon visitor. His looks,
his manner, his accent betray him as one of the English-speaking
pest, and the crowd, with its mind so full of English hatred, does not
readily distinguish the American. So drop into a word of English in a
cafe: your neighbor glowers and draws away. You face it out with a
nonchalant air, but gradually the tension grows, especially when, as
happened to-day at the prisoners' camp at Zossen, twenty miles
south of Berlin, a great burly Prussian puts a menacing eye on you
and says, without introduction: 'It is very dangerous for an
Englishman here!'

"Day by day here the hatred grows of England and things English:
judging from the press and the temper of the people, one would think
that England is the only foe. As a nation and as individuals they bear
no particular malice toward France. They even feel sorry for
'misguided' Belgium--betrayed by the British, they say. But England
they look upon as the root of all their trouble, the despicable,
retreating enemy they cannot touch, the enemy, they maintain,
whose clever, but selfish, diplomacy has forced the brunt of the
fighting on the others, while she sits back to wait for the spoils."

On my arrival in Berlin I delivered the mail packet to Ambassador
Gerard. Two days later I presented my credentials at the Auswartige
Amt, or Foreign Office, hoping to get permission to go to the western
front with the Crown Prince's army. I was told to see Baron von
Mumm Schwartzenstein, who was officially designated by Von Jagow
to handle neutral correspondents, and who, unofficially, I have reason
to believe, is connected with the Secret Service. He is a pudgy sort of
man, with a watery skin, and