But he did not go back into the storm. Suddenly a great weakness possessed him. His legs refused to hold him up. He was quivering all over. He believed he was about to be sick. He sought out a warm corner and sat down. But he was not sick. It was only outraged nature taking her toll. Roy was utterly exhausted. The coffee he had drunk had given him a false strength. Now that the crisis was over he was suddenly weak and tired—so tired. As he sat in the corner, he thought over the events of the past week. Always his thoughts came back to his captain, that great, rough, rude commander. Real kindness, Roy understood for the first time, does not always consist in soft words or an easy manner. He realized that now from his own experience. He had been kind to the limit of kindness to the woman he had rescued. But he had treated her with violent roughness. He saw his commander in a new light. Pondering over the matter, he fell asleep. And for hours, huddled in his corner, he was like one dead.
Morning came. Roy awoke. He was entirely refreshed. He jumped to his feet, confused at first. He did not know where he was. Then the whole terrible situation came to him. He supposed his companions were dead. He tried to shut the memory of his terrible experience out of his mind but could not. The suffering about him weighed him down, sickened him. He could stand danger better than distress. He went outside and looked about.
The sight that greeted him was appalling. The North Beach district, where he had so lately battled with death between the houses, was a surging sea. Three great structures still stood with the waves beating about them. A passer-by told him they were a private residence, the old North Beach Hotel, and the Spohn Sanitarium. Twenty-four hours earlier fifteen hundred houses had stood where now Roy saw only tossing waves. He turned from the sight in horror. The three buildings that remained on North Beach were terribly battered. Porticoes, doors, shutters, chimneys, and other parts had been wrenched away by wave and wind. Whole wings had been torn from the sanitarium. As Roy looked at it, he saw with horror that there were people still in it—doubtless sick and helpless.
Even as he looked Roy saw a man wading out toward the hospital. He watched, fascinated. Now swimming, now wading, the man fought his way to the battered building. A white-robed nurse appeared in a doorway. Presently the man faced about and fought his way back to land.
Roy turned back into the church. “Who is in charge here?” he asked one of the Red Cross workers.
“Miss Mildred Seaton,” was the reply. “She is over there, talking to that messenger from Mayor Boone’s office.”
Roy made his way toward the two. “Miss Seaton,” he said, when she had finished her talk with the mayor’s messenger, “I want to know what I can do to help.”
“What is your name? What can you do? We need workers of all sorts.”
“I am Roy Mercer,” began Roy, “wireless man on the steamship Lycoming——”
His companion cut him short. “What we need more than anything else,” she said, “is help. All the wires are down and we can get no word out. Can you send a message?”