would judge him by his bridge, as that stood or fell. He went over
it in his head, plate by plate, span by span, brick by brick, pier
by pier, remembering, comparing, estimating, and recalculating,
lest there should be any mistake; and through the long hours and
through the flights of formulae that danced and wheeled before him
a cold fear would come to pinch his heart. His side of the sum
was beyond question; but what man knew Mother Gunga's arithmetic?
Even as he was making all sure by the multiplication-table, the
river might be scooping a pot-hole to the very bottom of any one of
those eighty-foot piers that carried his reputation. Again a servant
came to him with food, but his mouth was dry, and he could only
drink and return to the decimals in his brain. And the river was
still rising. Peroo, in a mat shelter-coat, crouched at his feet,
watching now his face and now the face of the river, but saying
nothing.

At last the Lascar rose and floundered through the mud towards the
village, but he was careful to leave an ally to watch the boats.

Presently he returned, most irreverently driving before him the
priest of his creed - a fat old man, with a grey beard that
whipped the wind with the wet cloth that blew over his shoulder.
Never was seen so lamentable a guru.

"What good are offerings and little kerosene lamps and dry grain,"
shouted Peroo, " if squatting in the mud is all that thou canst
do? Thou hast dealt long with the Gods when they were contented
and well-wishing. Now they are angry. Speak to them!"

"What is a man against the wrath of Gods?" whined the priest,