“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!” “That’s why it comes. I’ve only known Indian rivers for five-and-twenty years, and I don’t pretend to understand. Here comes another _tar_.” Findlayson opened the telegram. “Cockran, this time, from the Ganges Canal: ‘_Heavy rains here. Bad._’ He might have saved the last word. Well, we don’t want to know any more. We’ve got to work the gangs all night and clean up the river-bed. You’ll take the east bank and work out to meet me in the middle. Get every thing that floats below the bridge: we shall have quite enough rivercraft coming down adrift anyhow, without letting the stone-boats ram the piers. What have you got on the east bank that needs looking after.” “Pontoon—one big pontoon with the overhead crane on it. T’other overhead crane on the mended pontoon, with the cart-road rivets from Twenty to Twenty-three piers—two construction lines, and a turning-spur. The pilework must take its chance,” said Hitchcock. “All right. Roll up everything you can lay hands on. We’ll give the gang fifteen minutes more to eat their grub.” Close to the verandah stood a big night-gong, never used except for flood, or fire in the village. Hitchcock had called for a fresh horse, and was off to his side of the bridge when Findlayson took the cloth-bound stick and smote with the rubbing stroke that brings out the full thunder of the metal.