Findlayson laughed and then sighed.  It was years since he had seen a steamer, and he was sick for home.  As his trolley passed under the tower, Peroo descended by a rope, ape-fashion, and cried:  “It looks well now, Sahib.  Our bridge is all but done.  What think you Mother Gunga will say when the rail runs over?”

“She has said little so far.  It was never Mother Gunga that delayed us.”

“There is always time for her; and none the less there has been delay.  Has the Sahib forgotten last autumn’s flood, when the stone-boats were sunk without warning—­or only a half-day’s warning?”

“Yes, but nothing save a big flood could hurt us now.  The spurs are holding well on the West Bank.”

“Mother Gunga eats great allowances.  There is always room for more stone on the revetments.  I tell this to the Chota Sahib,”—­he meant Hitchcock—­“and he laughs.”

“No matter, Peroo.  Another year thou wilt be able to build a bridge in thine own fashion.”

The Lascar grinned.  “Then it will not be in this way—­with stonework sunk under water, as the Qyetta was sunk.  I like sus-sus-pen-sheen bridges that fly from bank to bank with one big step, like a gang-plank.  Then no water can hurt.  When does the Lord Sahib come to open the bridge?”

“In three months, when the weather is cooler.”

“Ho! ho!  He is like the Burra Malum.  He sleeps below while the work is being done.  Then he comes upon the quarter-deck and touches with his finger, and says:  ‘This is not clean!  Dam jibboonwallah!’”

“But the Lord Sahib does not call me a dam jibboonwallah, Peroo.”

“No, Sahib; but he does not come on deck till the work is all finished.  Even the Burra Malum of the Nerbudda said once at Tuticorin—­”

“Bah!  Go!  I am busy.”

“I, also!” said Peroo, with an unshaken countenance.  “May I take the light dinghy now and row along the spurs?”

“To hold them with thy hands?  They are, I think, sufficiently heavy.”

“Nay, Sahib.  It is thus.  At sea, on the Black Water, we have room to be blown up and down without care.  Here we have no room at all.  Look you, we have put the river into a dock, and run her between stone sills.”

Findlayson smiled at the “we.”

“We have bitted and bridled her.  She is not like the sea, that can beat against a soft beach.  She is Mother Gunga—­in irons.”  His voice fell a little.

“Peroo, thou hast been up and down the world more even than I. Speak true talk, now.  How much dost thou in thy heart believe of Mother Gunga?”

“All that our priest says.  London is London, Sahib.  Sydney is Sydney, and Port Darwin is Port Darwin.  Also Mother Gunga is Mother Gunga, and when I come back to her banks I know this and worship.  In London I did poojah to the big temple by the river for the sake of the God within. . . .  Yes, I will not take the cushions in the dinghy.”