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 riverbed. You'll take the east bank and work out to
meet me in the middle. Get everything that floats below the bridge: we
shall have quite enough river-craft 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.

Long before the last rumble ceased every night-gong in the village
had taken up the warning. To these were added the hoarse screaming of
conches in the little temples; the throbbing of drums and tom-toms; and,
from the European quarters, where the riveters lived, McCartney's
bugle, a weapon of offence on Sundays and festivals, brayed desperat