Findlayson mounted his horse and trotted to the shed of a bungalow that he shared with his assistant.  The place had become home to him in the last three years.  He had grilled in the heat, sweated in the rains, and shivered with fever under the rude thatch roof; the lime-wash beside the door was covered with rough drawings and formulae, and the sentry-path trodden in the matting of the verandah showed where he had walked alone.  There is no eight-hour limit to an engineer’s work, and the evening meal with Hitchcock was eaten booted and spurred:  over their cigars they listened to the hum of the village as the gangs came up from the river-bed and the lights began to twinkle.

“Peroo has gone up the spurs in your dinghy.  He’s taken a couple of nephews with him, and he’s lolling in the stern like a commodore,” said Hitchcock.

“That’s all right.  He’s got something on his mind.  You’d think that ten years in the British India boats would have knocked most of his religion out of him.”

“So it has,” said Hitchcock, chuckling.  “I overheard him the other day in the middle of a most atheistical talk with that fat old guru of theirs.  Peroo denied the efficacy of prayer; and wanted the guru to go to sea and watch a gale out with him, and see if he could stop a monsoon.”

“All the same, if you carried off his guru he’d leave us like a shot.  He was yarning away to me about praying to the dome of St. Paul’s when he was in London.”

“He told me that the first time he went into the engine-room of a steamer, when he was a boy, he prayed to the low-pressure cylinder.”

“Not half a bad thing to pray to, either.  He’s propitiating his own Gods now, and he wants to know what Mother Gunga will think of a bridge being run across her.  Who’s there?” A shadow darkened the doorway, and a telegram was put into Hitchcock’s hand.

“She ought to be pretty well used to it by this time.  Only a tar.  It ought to be Ralli’s answer about the new rivets. . . .  Great Heavens!” Hitchcock jumped to his feet.

“What is it?” said the senior, and took the form.  “That’s what Mother Gunga thinks, is it,” he said, reading.  “Keep cool, young ’un.  We’ve got all our work cut out for us.  Let’s see.  Muir wired half an hour ago:  ‘Floods on the Ramgunga.  Look out.’  Well, that gives us—­one, two—­nine and a half for the flood to reach Melipur Ghaut and seven’s sixteen and a half to Lataoli—­say fifteen hours before it comes down to us.”

“Curse that hill-fed sewer of a Ramgunga!  Findlayson, this is two months before anything could have been expected, and the left bank is littered up with stuff still.  Two full months before the time!”