“Where is the bell?” Jack demanded. “We’ll ring it for you.”
“Across the patio,” Father Francisco directed. “The bell tower is to the right, beyond the kitchens.”
The very walls seemed to weave as Jack and Ken raced for the tower. Outside the mission, all was confusion. The Scouts could hear the frightened screams of terrified natives who sought the streets.
Reaching the bell tower, they seized the long rope. A dozen times they tolled the bell.
Another heavy tremor shook the mission. For a moment, Jack and Ken feared that the bell tower would come toppling down upon their heads. But the danger passed and even to their ears, the steady, clear clang of the bell was reassuring.
Minutes passed and there were no further quakes. Jack dropped the bell rope.
“The worst is over now, I think,” he said. “Let’s see what has happened to the village.”
Outside, natives were milling in the streets and running toward the mission. In two places the cobblestones had heaved up, leaving a wide, deep crevass. Faces mirrored fear and anxiety, but there was no panic.
Heavy dust hung over the street. Some distance away, a house was on fire. Already the villagers were fighting the flames with buckets of water. Jack and Ken helped, and then, when the blaze was out, looked about for Warwick and Willie.
“I guess they must have gone back to the waterfront,” Ken said. “Or maybe to our hotel. We ought to find ’em.”