With the dawn Graham found his father. He had thrown off his coat
and in his shirt-sleeves was, with other rescuers, digging in the
ruins. Graham himself had been working. He was nauseated, weary,
and unutterably wretched, for he had seen the night superintendent
and had heard of his father's message.
"Klein!" he said. "You don't mean Herman Klein?"
"That was what he said. I was to find him and hold him until he
got here. But I couldn't find him. He may have got out. There's
no way of telling now."
Waves of fresh nausea swept over Graham. He sat down on a pile of
bricks and wiped his forehead, clammy with sweat.
"I hope to God he was burned alive," muttered the other man,
surveying the scene. His eyes were reddened with smoke from the
fire, his clothing torn.
"I was knocked down myself," he said. "I was out in the yard
looking for Klein, and I guess I lay there quite a while. If I
hadn't gone out?" He shrugged his shoulders.
"How many women were on the night shift?"
"Not a lot.
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