He had been bearded by an English tutor of sporting tastes for some
five or six years, and was now royally wasting the revenues accumulated
during his minority by the Indian Government. His steam-launch, with its
silver-plated rails, striped silk awning, and mahogany decks, was a new
toy which Findlayson had found horribly in the way when the Rao came to
look at the bridge works.
"It's great luck," murmured Findlayson, but he was none the less afraid,
wondering what news might be of the bridge.
The gaudy blue-and-white funnel came downstream swiftly. They could see
Hitchcock in the bows, with a pair of opera-glasses, and his face was
unusually white. Then Peroo hailed, and the launch made for the tail
of the island. The Rao Sahib, in tweed shooting-suit and a seven-hued
turban, waved his royal hand, and Hitchcock shouted. But he need have
asked no questions, for Findlayson's first demand was for his bridge.
"All serene! 'Gad, I never expected to see you again, Findlayson. You're
seven koss downstream. Yes; there's not a stone shifted anywhere; but
how are you? I borrowed the Rao Sahib's launch, and he was good enough
to come along. Jump in. Ah, Finlinson, you are very well, eh? That was
most unprecedented calamity last night, eh? My royal palace, too, it
leaks like the devil, and the crops will also be short all about my
country.
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