Frank pondered.  “Go to the Presidio, I guess.  The army’s serving food out there, I hear.”  He returned the blankets to their owner and the two of them set forth.  On Oak street, near the mouth of Golden Gate Park, a broken street main spouted geyser-like out of the asphalt.  They snatched a hurried drink, laved their faces and hands and went on, passing a cracker wagon, filled with big tin containers, and surrounded by a hungry crowd.  The driver was passing out crackers with both hands, casting aside the tins when they were empty.

“It’s like the Millennium,” Aleta remarked.  “All classes of people herded together in common good will.  Do you see that well-fed looking fellow carrying the ragged baby?  He’s a corporation lawyer.  He makes $50,000 a year I’m told.  And the fat woman he’s helping with her numerous brood is a charwoman at the Alcazar theatre.”

Frank looked and laughed.  “Why—­it’s my Uncle Robert!” he exclaimed.

Robert Windham held out his free hand to Frank and Aleta.  His family was safe, he told them.  So were Francisco and Jeanne, who had joined the Windhams when the Stanley home was dynamited.  They had gone to Berkeley and would stay with friends of Maizie’s.

Frank wrote down the address.  He decided to remain in San Francisco.  There was Aleta....  And, somehow, Bertha must be located.

Everyone was bound for the Presidio.

“You may find me there later,” said Windham.  “I’ve some—­er—­business on this side.”

* * * * *

At the great military post which slopes back on the green headlands from the Golden Gate, Frank and Aleta found a varied company.  The hospitals were filled with men and women burned in the fire or hurt by falling walls.  There were scores—­perhaps a hundred of them.  Frank, with his heart in his mouth, made a survey of the hospitals, after finding tent room for Aleta.  His press badge gained admittance for him everywhere and he went through a pretence of taking notes.  But he was looking for Bertha.  At a large tent they were establishing an identification bureau, a rendezvous for separated families, friends or relatives.  Many people crowded this with frantic inquiries.

Soup was being served at the mess kitchens.  Great wagons filled with loaves of bread drove in and were apportioned.  Men, women and children formed in line to get their shares.

The sky was still covered with smoke.  Late comers reported that the fire had crossed Van Ness avenue.  There were orders posted all about that one must not build fires indoors nor burn lights at night.  Those who disobeyed would be shot.  The orders were signed by Mayor Schmitz.  Saloons had been closed for an indefinite period.  Two men, found looting the dead, had been summarily executed by military order.  Hundreds of buildings were being dynamited.  The dull roar of these frequent explosions was plainly discernible at the Presidio.