Peroo nodded with bright eyes. "In a little--in a little the Sahib
will find that he thinks well again. I too will--" He dived into his
treasure-box, resettled the rain-coat over his head, and squatted down
to watch the boats. It was too dark now to see beyond the first pier,
and the night seemed to have given the river new strength. Findlayson
stood with his chin on his chest, thinking. There was one point about
one of the piers--the seventh--that he had not fully settled in his
mind. The figures would not shape themselves to the eye except one by
one and at enormous intervals of time. There was a sound rich and mellow
in his ears like the deepest note of a double-bass--an entrancing sound
upon which he pondered for several hours, as it seemed. Then Peroo
was at his elbow, shouting that a wire hawser had snapped and the
stone-boats were loose. Findlayson saw the fleet open and swing out
fanwise to a long-drawn shriek of wire straining across gunnels.
"A tree hit them. They will all go," cried Peroo. "The main hawser has
parted. What does the Sahib do?"
An immensely complex plan had suddenly flashed into Findlayson's
mind. He saw the ropes running from boat to boat in straight lines and
angles--each rope a line of white fire.
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