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.

"Peroo, thou hast been up and down the world more even than I.
Speak true talk, now. How much dost thou in thy heart believe of
Mother Gunga?"

"All that our priest says. London is London, Sahib. Sydney is
Sydney, and Port Darwin is Port Darwin. Also Mother Gunga is
Mother Gunga, and when I come back to her banks I know this and
worship. In London I did poojah to the big temple by the river
for the sake of the God within. . . . Yes, I will not take the
cushions in the dinghy."

Findlayson mounted his horse and trotted to the shed of a
bungalow that he shared with his assistant. The place had
become home to him in the last three years. He had grilled in
the heat, sweated in the rains, and shivered with fever under
the rude thatch roof; the lime-wash beside the door was covered
with rough drawings and formulae, and the sentry-path trodden in
the matting of the verandah showed where he had walked alone.
There is no eight-hour limit to an engineer's work, and the
evening meal with Hitchcock was eaten booted and spurred: over
their cigars they listened to the hum of the village as the