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Updated: May 16, 2025
Findlayson, C. E., turned on his trolley and looked over the face of the country that he had changed for seven miles around.
He would interrupt the field-councils of Findlayson and Hitchcock without fear, till his wonderful English, or his still more wonderful linguafranca, half Portuguese and half Malay, ran out and he was forced to take string and show the knots that he would recommend. He controlled his own gang of tackle men mysterious relatives from Kutch Mandvi gathered month by month and tried to the uttermost.
He saw, after he had rubbed the water from his eyes, with an immense clearness, and trod, so it seemed to himself with world-encompassing strides. Somewhere in the night of time he had built a bridge a bridge that spanned illimitable levels of shining seas; but the Deluge had swept it away, leaving this one island under heaven for Findlayson and his companion, sole survivors of the breed of Man.
If she were even a dinghy with oars we could have ridden it out; but a box with holes is no good. Finlinson Sahib, she fills." "Accha! I am going away. Come thou also." In his mind, Findlayson had already escaped from the boat, and was circling high in air to find a rest for the sole of his foot.
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.
"The flood lessens even now," it cried. "Hour by hour the water falls, and their bridge still stands!" "My bridge," said Findlayson to himself "That must be very old work now. What have the Gods to do with my bridge?" His eyes rolled in the darkness following the roar.
Get thee to thy huts again, beloved, and make sport for the young things, for still Brahm dreams. Go, my children! Brahm dreams and till he wakes the Gods die not." "Whither went they?" said the Lascar, awe-struck, shivering a little with the cold. "God knows!" said Findlayson.
Then there was the cholera that came in the night to the village by the bridge works; and after the cholera smote the small-pox. The fever they had always with them. Hitchcock had been appointed a magistrate of the third class with whipping powers, for the better government of the community, and Findlayson watched him wield his powers temperately, learning what to overlook and what to look after.
At sea, on the Black Water, we have room to be blown up and down without care. Here we have no room at all. Look you, we have put the river into a dock, and run her between stone sills." Findlayson smiled at the "we." "We have bitted and bridled her. She is not like the sea, that can beat against a soft beach. She is Mother Gunga in irons." His voice fell a little.
"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 down-stream." "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.
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