San Francisco was burning.  The water mains were broken by the quake, Frank learned.  The fire department was demoralized.  Chief Sullivan was dead.  A falling chimney from the California Hotel had crushed him.

There were emergency reservoirs, but no one seemed to know where.  They had not been used for years.

Swiftly the fire gained.  It ravaged like a fiend in the factory district south and east, toward the bay.

By noon a huge smoke curtain hid the sky; through it the sun gleamed palely like a blood-red disc.  Wild rumors were in circulation.  Los Angeles was wiped out.  St. Louis had been destroyed.  New York and Chicago were inundated by gigantic tidal waves.

Frank decided to return home and discover how his people fared.  Perhaps there would be a bite for him.  He found his father’s house surrounded by a cordon of young soldiers—­student militiamen from Berkeley, some one said.  They ordered him off.

“But—­” he cried.  “It’s my HOME.  My father and mother are there.”

“They were ordered out two hours since,” said a youthful officer, who came up to settle the dispute.  “We’ll have to dynamite the place....  No water....  Desperate measures necessary....”

He stopped Frank’s effort to reply with further stereotyped announcements.  “Orders of the Admiral, Mayor, Chief of Police....  Sorry.  Can’t be helped....  Keep back, everybody.  Men have orders to shoot.”

He made off tempestuously busy and excited.

Frank shouted after him, “Wait, where have my parents gone?  Did they leave any word?”

The young man turned, irritably.  “Don’t know,” he answered, and resumed his vehement activities.  Frank, with a strange, empty feeling, retraced his way, fought a path by means of sheer will and the virtue of his police badge across Market street, and struck out toward Lafayette Square.  Scarcely realizing it, he was bound for Aleta’s apartment.

A warped shaft had incapacitated the automatic elevator, so he climbed three flights of stairs and found Aleta packing.

“Frank!” she cried, and ran to him.  “This is good of you.”  She took both of his hands and clung to them as if she were a little frightened.

“Wait,” she said.  “I’ll bet you’ve had nothing to eat.  I’ll make you a cup of coffee and a toasted cracker on the spirit lamp.”

Silently he sat on a broken chair and watched her.  He was immensely grateful and—­he suddenly realized—­immensely weary.  What a dear girl Aleta was!  And he had not thought of her till all else failed him.

Soon the coffee was steaming in two little Dresden cups, one minus a handle.  There was a plateful of crackers, buttered and toasted, a bit of Swiss cheese.  Frank had never tasted anything so marvelous.

“Where were you going?” he asked, finally.

“To the park ... the panhandle ... everybody’s going there.”

“Your—­mother!” A swift recollection smote him.  “Where is she?”