"We've got to fight starvation, and we've got to beat it," Arthur
continued doggedly. "I'm telling you this right at the outset,
because I want you to begin right at the beginning and pitch in to
help. We have very little food and a lot of us to eat it. First,
I want some volunteers to help with rationing. Next, I want every
ounce of food, in this place put under guard where it can be served
to those who need it most. Who will help out with this?"
The swift succession of shocks had paralyzed the faculties of most
of the people there, but half a dozen moved forward. Among them was
a single gray-haired man with an air of accustomed authority. Arthur
recognized him as the president of the bank on the ground floor.
"I don't know who you are or if you're right in saying what has
happened," said the gray-haired man. "But I see something's got to
be done, and--well, for the time being I'll take your word for what
that is. Later on we'll thrash this matter out."
Arthur nodded. He bent over and spoke in a low voice to the
gray-haired man, who moved away.
"Grayson, Walters, Terhune, Simpson, and Forsythe come here,"
the gray-haired man called at a doorway.
A number of men began to press dazedly toward him. Arthur resumed
his harangue.
"You people--those of you who aren't too dazed to think--are
remembering there's a restaurant in the building and no need to
starve. You're wrong. There are nearly two thousand of us here. That
means six thousand meals a day. We've got to have nearly ten tons
of food a day, and we've got to have it at once."
"Hunt?" some one suggested.
"I saw Indians," some one else shouted. "Can we trade with them?"
"We can hunt and we can trade with the Indians," Arthur admitted,
"but we need food by the ton--by the ton, people! The Indians don't
store up supplies, and, besides, they're much too scattered to have
a surplus for us. But we've got to have food. Now, how many of you
know anything about hunting, fishing, trapping, or any possible
way of getting food?"
There were a few hands raised--pitifully few. Arthur saw Estelle's
hand up.
"Very well," he said. "Those of you who raised your hands then
come with me up on the second floor and we'll talk it over.
The rest of you try to conquer your fright, and don't go outside
for a while. We've got some things to attend to before it will
be quite safe for you to venture out. And keep away from the
restaurant. There are armed guards over that food. Before we pass
it out indiscriminately, we'll see to it there's more for to-morrow
and the next day."
He stepped down from the counter and moved toward the stairway. It
was not worth while to use the elevator for the ride of only one
floor. Estelle managed to join him, and they mounted the steps
together.
"Do you think we'll pull through all right?" she asked quietly.
"We've got to!" Arthur told her, setting his chin firmly. "We've
simply got to."
The gray-haired president of the bank was waiting for them at the
top of the stairs.
"My name is Van Deventer," he said, shaking hands with Arthur,
who gave his own name.
"Where shall our emergency council sit?" he asked.
"The bank has a board room right over the safety vault. I dare say we
can accommodate everybody there--everybody in the council, anyway."
Arthur followed into the board-room, and the others trooped in
after him.
"I'm just assuming temporary leadership," Arthur explained, "because
it's imperative some things be done at once. Later on we can talk
about electing officials to direct our activities. Right now we
need food. How many of you can shoot?"
About a quarter of the hands were raised. Estelle's was among
the number.
"And how many are fishermen?"
A few more went up.
"What do the rest of you do?"
There was a chorus of "gardener," "I have a garden in my yard,"
"I grow peaches in New Jersey," and three men confessed that they
raised chickens as a hobby.
"We'll want you gardeners in a little while. Don't go yet. But the
most important are huntsmen and fishermen. Have any of you weapons
in your offices?"
A number had revolvers, but only one man had a shotgun and shells.
"I was going on my vacation this afternoon straight from the office,"
he explained, "and have all my vacation tackle."
"Good man!" Arthur exclaimed. "You'll go after the heavy game."
"With a shotgun?" the sportsman asked, aghast.
"If you get close to them a shotgun will do as well as anything,
and we can't waste a shell on every bird or rabbit. Those shells of
yours are precious. You other fellows will have to turn fishermen
for a while. Your pistols are no good for hunting."
"The watchmen at the bank have riot guns," said Van Deventer,
"and there are one or two repeating-rifles there. I don't know
about ammunition."
"Good! I don't mean about the ammunition, but about the guns. We'll
hope for the ammunition. You fishermen get to work to improvise
tackle out of anything you can get hold of. Will you do that?"
A series of nods answered his question.
"Now for the gardeners. You people will have to roam through the
woods in company with the hunters and locate anything in the way of
edibles that grows. Do all of you know what wild plants look like?
I mean wild fruits and vegetables that are good to eat."
A few of them nodded, but the majority looked dubious. The consensus
of opinion seemed to be that they would try. Arthur seemed a little
discouraged.
"I guess you're the man to tell about the restaurant," Van Deventer
said quietly. "And as this is the food commission, or something of
that sort, everybody here will be better for hearing it. Anyway,
everybody will have to know it before night. I took over the
restaurant as you suggested, and posted some of the men from the
bank that I knew I could trust about the doors. But there was
hardly any use in doing it."
"The restaurant stocks up in the afternoon, as most of its
business is in the morning and at noon. It only carries a day's
stock of foodstuffs, and the--the cataclysm, or whatever it was,
came at three o'clock. There is practically nothing in the place.
We couldn't make sandwiches for half the women that are caught
with us, let alone the men. Everybody will go hungry to-night.
There will be no breakfast to-morrow, nor anything to eat until we
either make arrangements with the Indians for some supplies or else
get food for ourselves."
Arthur leaned his jaw on his hand and considered. A slow flush
crept over his cheek. He was getting his fighting blood up.
At school, when he began to flush slowly his schoolmates had known
the symptom and avoided his wrath. Now he was growing angry with
mere circumstances, but it would be none the less unfortunate for
those circumstances.
"Well," he said at last deliberately, "we've got to-- What's that?"
There was a great creaking and groaning. Suddenly a sort of
vibration was felt under foot. The floor began to take on a slight
slant.
"Great Heaven!" some one cried. "The building's turning over and
we'll be buried in the ruins!"
The tilt of the floor became more pronounced. An empty chair slid
to one end of the room. There was a crash.