We're utterly out of our
reckoning. When is this thing down on us?"
"There's no saying. She's filling as fast as she can. Look!" Findlayson
pointed to the planks below his feet, where the sand, burned and defiled
by months of work, was beginning to whisper and fizz.
"What orders?" said Hitchcock.
"Call the roll--count stores sit on your hunkers--and pray for the
bridge. That's all I can think of Good night. Don't risk your life
trying to fish out anything that may go downstream."
"Oh, I'll be as prudent as you are! 'Night. Heavens, how she's filling!
Here's the rain in earnest."
Findlayson picked his way back to his bank, sweeping the last of
McCartney's riveters before him. The gangs had spread themselves along
the embankments, regardless of the cold rain of the dawn, and there they
waited for the flood. Only Peroo kept his men together behind the swell
of the guard-tower, where the stone-boats lay tied fore and aft with
hawsers, wire-rope, and chains.
A shrill wail ran along the line, growing to a yell, half fear and half
wonder: the face of the river whitened from bank to hank between the
stone facings, and the far-away spurs went out in spouts of foam. Mother
Gunga had come bank-high in haste, and a wall of chocolate-coloured
water was her messenger.
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