“Randall,” said Mrs. Winter, “you look very nice; come and help me dress. There will most likely be some more shocks.”
Randall, trembling in every limb, but instinctively assuming a composed mien, followed the undaunted old lady.
The colonel was going in another direction, having heard a telephone bell. He was most anxious to put himself into communication with Birdsall, because not even during the earthquake had he forgotten an uglier peril; and it had occurred to him that Atkins was of a temper not to be frightened by the convulsions of order; but rather to make his account of it. Nor did the message through the telephone tend to reassure him.
The man at the other end of the telephone was Birdsall. No telling how long the telephone service would keep up, he reported; wires were down around the corner; worse, the water mains were spouting; and from where he stood since he felt the first shock he had counted thirty-six fires. Ten of them were down in the quarter where some of his men had homes; and a field-glass had shown that the houses were all tossed about there; he couldn’t keep his men steady; it seemed inhuman to ask them to stay when their wives and children might be dying; of course it was his damn luck to have all married men from down there.
“Well, I reckon you will have to let them go; but watch out,” begged the colonel, “for you know the men we are after will take advantage of general disorder to get in their dirty work. Now is the most dangerous time.”
Birdsall knew it; he had had intimations that some men were trying to sneak up the hill; they had been turned back. They pretended to be some wandering railway workers; but Birdsall distrusted them. He—No use to ring! Vain to tap the carriage of the receiver! The telephone was dead, jarred out of existence somewhere beyond their ken.
By this time the cold sunlight of the woefulest day that San Francisco had ever seen was spread over the earth. The city was spotted with blood-red spouts of flames. The ruin of the earthquake had hardly been visible from their distance, although it was ugly enough and of real importance; but, even in the brief space which they in Casa Fuerte had waited before they should set forth, fires had enkindled in all directions, most dreadful to see; nor did there seem to be any check upon them.
Tracy had waked the domestic staff, and, dazed but stoical, they were getting breakfast. But Keatcham could not wait; he was in a cold fury of haste to get to the town.
He had consented to wait for his breakfast under Miss Smith’s representation that it would be ready at once and her assurance that he couldn’t work through the day without it.
“Happily, Archie,” explained Tracy, whose unquenchable college levity no earthquake could affect, “happily my domestic jewel has been stocked up with rice and oatmeal, two of the most nutritious of foods; and Miss Janet is making coffee on her traveling coffee pot for the Boss. That’s alcohol, and independent of gas-mains. Lucky; for the gas-range is out of action, and we have to try charcoal. Notice one interesting thing, Archie? Old Keatcham, whom we were fighting tooth and nail three weeks ago, is now bossing us as ruthlessly as a foot-ball coach; and Cousin Cary is taking his slack talk as meek as a freshman. Great old boy, Keatcham! And—oh, I say! has any one gone to the rescue of the Rogerses? I saw Kito speeding over that way from the garage and Haley hiking after him. I hope the nine small yellow domestics are not burned at the stake with Rogers; the bally fire-trap is blazing like a tar-barrel!”