Manners and customs -- Fiction; Short stories, English
East and west and north and south the
construction-trains rattled and shrieked up and down the embankments,
the piled trucks of brown and white stone banging behind them till the
side-boards were unpinned, and with a roar and a grumble a few thousand
tons more material were flung out to hold the river in place.
Findlayson, C. E., turned on his trolley and looked over the face of
the country that he had changed for seven miles around. Looked back on
the humming village of five thousand workmen; up stream and down, along
the vista of spurs and sand; across the river to the far piers,
lessening in the haze; overhead to the guard-towers—and only he knew
how strong those were—and with a sigh of contentment saw that his work
was good. There stood his bridge before him in the sunlight, lacking
only a few weeks’ work on the girders of the three middle piers—his
bridge, raw and ugly as original sin, but _pukka_—permanent—to endure
when all memory of the builder, yea, even of the splendid Findlayson
truss, had perished. Practically, the thing was done.
Hitchcock, his assistant, cantered along the line on a little
switch-tailed Kabuli pony who through long practice could have trotted
securely over a trestle, and nodded to his chief.
“All but,” said he, with a smile.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” the senior answered. “Not half a bad job
for two men, is it?”
“One—and a half. Gad, what a Cooper’s Hill cub I was when I came on the
works!” Hitchcock felt very old in the crowded experiences of the past
three years, that had taught him power and responsibility.
“You _were_ rather a colt,” said Findlayson. “I wonder how you’ll like
going back to office-work when this job’s over.”
“I shall hate it!” said the young man, and as he went on his eye
followed Findlayson’s, and he muttered, “Isn’t it damned good?”
“I think we’ll go up the service together,” Findlayson said to himself.
“You’re too good a youngster to waste on another man. Cub thou wast;
assistant thou art. Personal assistant, and at Simla, thou shalt be, if
any credit comes to me out of the business!”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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