"All clear your side?" said Findlayson. The whisper rang in the box
of latticework.

"Yes, and the east channel's filling now. We're utterly out of our
reckoning. When is this thing down on us?"

"There's no saying. She's filling as fast as she can. Look!"
Findlayson pointed to the planks below his feet, where the sand,
burned and defiled by months of work, was beginning to whisper
and fizz.

"What orders?" said Hitchcock.

"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. The gangs had spread themselves along the embankments,
regardless of the cold rain of the dawn, and there they waited
for the flood. Only Peroo kept his men together behind the swell
of the guard-tower, where the stone-boats lay tied fore and aft
with hawsers, wire-rope, and chains.

A shrill wail ran along the line, growing to a yell, half fear and
half wonder: the face of the river whitened from bank to bank
between the stone facings, and the faraway spurs went out in spouts
of foam. Mother Gunga had come bank-high in haste, and a wall of