The farther bank was
veiled by rain, into which the bridge ran out and vanished; the
spurs up-stream were marked by no more than eddies and spoutings,
and down-stream the pent river, once freed of her guide-lines, had
spread like a sea to the horizon. Then hurried by, rolling in the
water, dead men and oxen together, with here and there a patch of
thatched roof that melted when it touched a pier.
"Big flood," said Peroo, and Findlayson nodded. It was as big a
flood as he had any wish to watch. His bridge would stand what was
upon her now, but not very much more, and if by any of a thousand
chances there happened to be a weakness in the embankments, Mother
Gunga would carry his honour to the sea with the other raffle.
Worst of all, there was nothing to do except to sit still; and
Findlayson sat still under his macintosh till his helmet became
pulp on his head, and his boots were over-ankle in mire. He took
no count of time, for the river was marking the hours, inch by
inch and foot by foot, along the embankment, and he listened, numb
and hungry, to the straining of the stone-boats, the hollow thunder
under the piers, and the hundred noises that make the full note of
a flood.
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