"Peroo, thou hast been up and down the world more even than I. Speak
true talk, now. How much dolt 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 gangs came up from the river-bed and the lights
began to twinkle.
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