It was not until dawn that the full extent of the disaster was revealed.
All night, by the flames from the sheds in the yard, which were of wood
and still burning, rescue parties had worked frantically. Two of the
long buildings, nearest to the fuse department, had collapsed entirely.
Above the piles of fallen masonry might be seen, here and there, the
black mass of some machine or lathe, and it was there the search parties
were laboring. Luckily the fuse department had not gone double turn, and
the night shift in the machine-shop was not a full one.

The fuse department was a roaring furnace, and repeated calls had
brought in most of the fire companies of the city. Running back and
forth in the light of the flames were the firemen and such volunteer
rescuers as had been allowed through the police cordon. Outside that
line of ropes and men were gathered a tragic crowd, begging, imploring
to be allowed through to search for some beloved body. Now and then
a fresh explosion made the mob recoil, only to press close again,
importuning, tragic, hopeless.

The casualty list ran high. All night long ambulances stood in a row
along the street, backed up to the curb and waiting, and ever so often a
silent group, in broken step, carried out some quiet covered thing that
would never move again.

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.