In the
little deep water left by the drought, an overhead-crane travelled
to and fro along its spile-pier, jerking sections of iron into place,
snorting and backing and grunting as an elephant grunts in the
timber-yard. Riveters by the hundred swarmed about the lattice
side-work and the iron roof of the railway-line, hung from invisible
staging under the bellies of the girders, clustered round the throats
of the piers, and rode on the overhang of the footpath-stanchions;
their fire-pots and the spurts of flame that answered each
hammer-stroke showing no more than pale yellow in the sun's glare.
East and west and north and south the construction-trains rattled
and shrieked up and down the embankments, the piled trucks of brown
and white stone banging behind them till the side-boards were
unpinned, and with a roar and a grumble a few thousand tons more
material were flung out to hold the river in place.
Findlayson, C. E., turned on his trolley and looked over the face
of the country that he had changed for seven miles around. Looked
back on the humming village of five thousand workmen; up stream and
down, along the vista of spurs and sand; across the river to the far
piers, lessening in the haze; overhead to the guard-towers - and
only he knew how strong those were - and with a sigh of contentment
saw that his work was good.
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