PART I

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

A WALKING DELEGATE

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS.

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR- PART I

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR - PART II

THE SON OF HIS FATHER

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

The least that Findlayson, of the Public Works Department,

expected was a C.I.E.; he dreamed of a C. S. I. Indeed, his

friends told him that he deserved more. For three years he had

endured heat and cold, disappointment, discomfort, danger, and

disease, with responsibility almost to top-heavy for one pair of

shoulders; and day by day, through that time, the great Kashi

Bridge over the Ganges had grown under his charge. Now, in less

than three months, if all went well, his Excellency the Viceroy

would open the bridge in state, an archbishop would bless it,

and the first trainload of soldiers would come over it, and

there would be speeches.

Findlayson, C. E., sat in his trolley on a construction line that

ran along one of the main revetments - the huge stone-faced

banks that flared away north and south for three miles on either

side of the river and permitted himself to think of the end.

With its approaches, his work was one mile and three-quarters in

length; a lattice~girder bridge, trussed with the Findlayson

truss standing on seven-and-twenty brick piers. Each one of those

piers was twenty-four feet in diameter, capped with red Agra

stone and sunk eighty feet below the shifting sand of the Ganges'

bed. Above them was a railway-line fifteen feet broad; above

that, again, a cart-road of eighteen feet, flanked with

footpaths. At either end rose towers, of red brick, loopholed

for musketry and pierced for big guns, and the ramp of the road

was being pushed forward to their haunches. The raw earth-ends

were crawling and alive with hundreds upon hundreds of tiny asses

climbing out of the yawning borrow-pit below with sackfuls of

stuff; and the hot afternoon air was filled with the noise of

hooves, the rattle of the drivers' sticks, and the swish and

roll-down of the dirt. The river was very low, and on the

dazzling white sand between the three centre piers stood squat

cribs of railway~sleepers, filled within and daubed without with

mud, to support the last of the girders as those were riveted up.

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 timberyard. 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 work-men; 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. There stood his bridge before him in

the sunlight, lacking only a few weeks' work on the girders of

the three middle piers - his bridge, raw and ugly as original

sin, but pukka - permanent - to endure when all memory of the

builder, yea, even of the splendid Findlayson truss, has

perished. Practically, the thing was done.

Hitchcock, his assistant, cantered along the line on a little

switch-tailed Kabuli pony who through long practice could have

trotted securely over trestle,and nodded to his chief.

"All but," said he, with a smile.

"I've been thinking about it," the senior answered. "'Not half a

bad job for two men, is it?"

"One - and a half. 'Gad, what a Cooper's Hill cub I was when I

came on the works!" Hitchcock felt very old in the crowded

experiences of the past three years, that had taught him power

and responsibility.

"You were rather a colt," said Findlayson. "I wonder how you'll

like going back to office-work when this job's over."

"I shall hate it!" said the young man, and as he went on his eye

followed Findlayson's, and he muttered, "Isn't it damned good?"

"I think we'll go up the service together," Findlayson said to

himself. "You're too good a youngster to waste on another man.

Cub thou wast; assistant thou art. Personal assistant, and at

Simla, thou shalt be, if any credit comes to me out of the

business!"

Indeed, the burden of the work had fallen altogether on

Findlayson and his assistant, the young man whom he had chosen

because of his rawness to break to his own needs. There were

labour contractors by the half-hundred - fitters and riveters,

European, borrowed from the railway workshops, with, perhaps,

twenty white and half-caste subordinates to direct, under

direction, the bevies of workmen - but none knew better than

these two, who trusted each other, how the underlings were not

to be trusted. They had been tried many times in sudden crises

- by slipping of booms, by breaking of tackle, failure of cranes,

and the wrath of the river - but no stress had brought to light

any man among men whom Findlayson and Hitchcock would have

honoured by working as remorselessly as they worked them-selves.

Findlayson thought it over from the beginning: the months of

office-work destroyed at a blow when the Government of India, at

the last moment, added two feet to the width of the bridge, under

the impression that bridges were cut out of paper, and so brought

to ruin at least half an acre of calculations- and Hitchcock, new

to disappointment, buried his head in his arms and wept; the

heart-breaking delays over the filling of the contracts in

England; the futile correspondences hinting at great wealth of

commissions if one, only one, rather doubtful consignment were

passed; the war that followed the refusal; the careful, polite

obstruction at the other end that followed the war, till young

Hitchcock, putting one month's leave to another month, and

borrowing ten days from Findlayson, spent his poor little savings

of a year in a wild dash to London, and there, as his own tongue

asserted and the later consignments proved, put the fear of God

into a man so great that he feared only Parliament and said so

till Hitchcock wrought with him across his own dinner table, and

- he feared the Kashi Bridge and all who spoke in its name. Then

there was the cholera that came in the night to the village by

the bridge works; and after the cholera smote the small-pox. The

fever they had always with them. Hitchcock had been appointed a

magistrate of the third class with whipping powers, for the

better government of the community, and Findlayson watched him

wield his powers temperately, learning what to overlook and what

to look after. It was a long, long reverie, and it covered

storm, sudden freshets, death in every manner and shape, violent

and awful rage against red tape half frenzying a mind that knows

it should be busy on other things; drought, sanitation, finance;

birth, wedding, burial, and riot in the village of twenty warring

castes; argument, expostulation, persuasion, and the blank

despair that a man goes to bed upon, thankful that his rifle is

all in pieces in the gun-case. Behind everything rose the black

frame of the Kashi Bridge - plate by plate, girder by girder,

span by span - and each pier of it recalled Hitchcock, the

all-round man, who had stood by his chief without failing from

the very first to this last.

So the bridge was two men's work - unless one counted Peroo, as

Peroo certainly counted himself. He was a Lascar, a Kharva from

Bulsar, familiar with every port between Rockhampton and London,

who had risen to the rank of serang on the British India boats,

but wearying of routine musters and clean clothes, had thrown up

the service and gone inland, where men of his calibre were sure

of employment. For his knowledge of tackle and the handling of

heavy weights, Peroo was worth almost any price he might have

chosen to put upon his services; but custom decreed the wage of

the overhead-men, and Peroo was not within many silver pieces of

his proper value. Neither running water nor extreme heights made

him afraid; and, as an ex-serang, he knew how to hold authority.

No piece of iron was so big or so badly placed that Peroo could

not devise a tackle to lift it - a loose-ended, sagging

arrangement, rigged with a scandalous amount of talking, but

perfectly equal to the work in hand. It was Peroo who had saved

the girder of Number Seven pier from destruction when the new

wire-rope jammed in the eye of the crane, and the huge plate

tilted in its slings, threatening to slide out sideways. Then

the native workmen lost their heads with great shoutings, and

Hitchcock's right arm was broken by a falling T-plate, and he

buttoned it up in his coat and swooned, and came to and directed

for four hours till Peroo, from the top of the crane, reported

"All's well," and the plate swung home. There was no one like

Peroo, serang, to lash, and guy, and hold, to control the

donkey-engines, to hoist a fallen locomotive craftily out of the

borrow-pit into which it had tumbled; to strip, and dive, if need

be, to see how the concrete blocks round the piers stood the

scouring of Mother Gunga, or to adventure upstream on a monsoon

night and report on the state of the embankment-facings. He

would interrupt the field-councils of Findlayson and Hitchcock

without fear, till his wonderful English, or his still more

wonderful lingua franca, half Portuguese and half Malay, ran out

and he was forced to take string and show the knots that he would

recommend. He controlled his own gang of tackle men -

mysterious relatives from Kutch Mandvi gathered month by month

and tried to the uttermost. No consideration of family or kin

allowed Peroo to keep weak hands or a giddy head on the

pay-roll. "My honour is the honour of this bridge," he would

say to the about-to-be-dismissed. "What do I care for your

honour? Go and work on a steamer. That is all you are fit for."

The little cluster of huts where he and his gang lived centred

round the tattered dwelling of a sea-priest - one who had never

set foot on black water, but had been chosen as ghostly

counsellor by two generations of sea-rovers all unaffected by

port missions or those creeds which are thrust upon sailors by

agencies along Thames bank. The priest of the Lascars had

nothing to do with their caste, or indeed with anything at all.

He ate the offerings of his church, and slept and smoked, and

slept again, "for," said Peroo, who had haled him a thousand

miles inland, "he is a very holy man. He never cares what you

eat so long as you do not eat beef, and that is good, because on

land we worship Shiva, we Kharvas; but at sea on the Kumpani's

boats we attend strictly to the orders of the Burra Malum [the

first mate], and on this bridge we observe what Finlinson Sahib

says."

Finlinson Sahib had that day given orders to clear the

scaffolding from the guard-tower on the right bank, and Peroo

with his mates was casting loose and lowering down the bamboo

poles and planks as swiftly as ever they had whipped the cargo

out of a coaster.

From his trolley he could hear the whistle of the serang's

silver pipe and the creek and clatter of the pulleys. Peroo was

standing on the top-most coping of the tower, clad in the blue

dungaree of his abandoned service, and as Findlayson motioned to

him to be careful, for his was no life to throw away, he gripped

the last pole, and, shading his eyes ship-fashion, answered with

the long-drawn wail of the fo'c'sle lookout: "Ham dekhta hai"

("I

am looking out"). Findlayson laughed and then sighed. It was

years since he had seen a steamer, and he was sick for home. As

his trolley passed under the tower, Peroo descended by a rope,

ape-fashion, and cried: "It looks well now, Sahib. Our bridge is

all but done. What think you Mother Gunga will say when the rail

runs over?"

"She has said little so far. It was never Mother Gunga that

delayed us."

"There is always time for her; and none the less there has been

delay. Has the Sahib forgotten last autumn's flood, when the

stone-boats were sunk without warning - or only a half-day's

warning?"

"Yes, but nothing save a big flood could hurt us now. The spurs

are holding well on the West Bank."

"Mother Gunga eats great allowances. There is always room for

more stone on the revetments. I tell this to the Chota Sahib "-

he meant Hitchcock - "and he laughs."

"No matter, Peroo. Another year thou wilt be able to build a

bridge in thine own fashion."

The Lascar grinned. "Then it will not be in this way - with

stonework sunk under water, as the Qyetta was sunk. I like

sus-sus-pen-sheen bridges that fly from bank to bank. with one

big step, like a gang-plank. Then no water can hurt. When does

the Lord Sahib come to open the bridge?"

"In three months, when the weather is cooler."

"Ho! ho! He is like the Burra Malum. He sleeps below while the

work is being done. Then he comes upon the quarter-deck and

touches with his finger, and says: 'This is not clean! Dam

jibboonwallah!'"

"But the Lord Sahib does not call me a dam jibboonwallah, Peroo."

"No, Sahib; but he does not come on deck till the work is all

finished. Even the Burra Malum of the Nerbudda said once at

Tuticorin -"

"Bah! Go! I am busy."

"I, also!" said Peroo, with an unshaken countenance. "May I take

the light dinghy now and row along the spurs?"

"To hold them with thy hands? They are, I think, sufficiently

heavy."

"Nay, Sahib. It is thus. At sea, on the Black Water, we have

room to be blown up and down without care. Here we have no room

at all. Look you, we have put the river into a dock, and run her

between stone sills."

Findlayson smiled at the "we."

"We have bitted and bridled her. She is not like the sea, that

can beat against a soft beach. She is Mother Gunga - in irons."

His voice fell a little.

"Peroo, thou hast been up and down the world more even than I.

Speak true talk, now. How much dost 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.

"Peroo has gone up the spurs in your dinghy. He's taken a couple

of nephews with him, and he's lolling in the stern like a

commodore," said Hitchcock.

"That's all right. He's got something on his mind. You'd think

that ten years in the British India boats would have knocked

most of his religion out of him."

"So it has," said Hitchcock, chuckling. "I overheard him the

other day in the middle of a most atheistical talk with that fat

old guru of theirs. Peroo denied the efficacy of prayer; and

wanted the guru to go to sea and watch a gale out with him, and

see if he could stop a monsoon."

"All the same, if you carried off his guru he'd leave us like a

shot. He was yarning away to me about praying to the dome of St.

Paul's when he was in London."

"He told me that the first time he went into the engine-room of a

steamer, when he was a boy, he prayed to the low-pressure

cylinder."

"Not half a bad thing to pray to, either. He's propitiating his

own Gods now, and he wants to know what Mother Gunga will think

of a bridge being run across her. Who's there?" A shadow

darkened the doorway, and a telegram was put into Hitchcock's

hand.

"She ought to be pretty 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 desperately, calling to "Stables." Engine

after engine toiling home along the spurs at the end of her day's

work whistled in answer till the whistles were answered from the

far bank. Then the big gong thundered thrice for a sign that it

was flood and not fire; conch, drum, and whistle echoed the

call, and the village quivered to the sound of bare feet running

upon soft earth. The order in all cases was to stand by the

day's work and wait instructions. The gangs poured by in the

dusk; men stopping to knot a loin-cloth or fasten a sandal;

gang-foremen shouting to their subordinates as they ran or paused

by the tool-issue sheds for bars and mattocks; locomotives

creeping down their tracks wheel-deep in the crowd; till the

brown torrent disappeared into the dusk of the river-bed, raced

over the pilework, swarmed along the lattices, clustered by the

cranes, and stood still - each man in his place.

Then the troubled beating of the gong carried the order to take

up everything and bear it beyond high-water mark, and the

flare-lamps broke out by the hundred between the webs of dull

iron as the riveters began a night's work, racing against the

flood that was to come. The girders of the three centre piers -

those that stood on the cribs -were all but in position. They

needed just as many rivets as could be driven into them, for the

flood would assuredly wash out their supports, and the ironwork

would settle down on the caps of stone if they were not blocked

at the ends. A hundred crowbars strained at the sleepers of the

temporary line that fed the unfinished piers. It was heaved up

in lengths, loaded into trucks, and backed up the bank beyond

flood-level by the groaning locomotives. The tool-sheds on the

sands melted away before the attack of shouting armies, and with

them went the stacked ranks of Government stores, iron-hound

boxes of rivets, pliers, cutters, duplicate parts of the

riveting-machines, spare pumps and chains. The big crane would

be the last to be shifted, for she was hoisting all the heavy

stuff up to the main structure of the bridge. The concrete

blocks on the fleet of stone-boats were dropped overside, where

there was any depth of water, to guard the piers, and the empty

boats themselves were poled under the bridge down-stream. It was

here that Peroo's pipe shrilled loudest, for the first stroke of

the big gong had brought the dinghy back at racing speed, and

Peroo and his people were stripped to the waist, working for the

honour and credit which are better than life.

"I knew she would speak," he cried. "I knew, but the telegraph

gives us good warning. O sons of unthinkable begetting -

children of unspeakable shame - are we here for the look of the

thing?" It was two feet of wire-rope frayed at the ends, and it

did wonders as Peroo leaped from gunnel to gunnel, shouting the

language of the sea.

Findlayson was more troubled for the stone boats than anything

else. McCartney, with his gangs, was blocking up the ends of

the three doubtful spans. but boats adrift, if the flood chanced

to be a high one, might endanger the girders; and there was a

very fleet in the shrunken channel.

"Get them behind the swell of the guard tower," he shouted down

to

Peroo. "It will be dead-water there. Get them below the

bridge."

"Accha! [Very good.] I know; we are mooring them with

wire-rope," was the answer. "Heh! Listen to the Chota Sahib. He

is working hard."

>From across the river came an almost continuous whistling of

locomotives, backed by the rumble of stone. Hitchcock at the

last minute was spending a few hundred more trucks of Tarakee

stone in reinforcing his spurs and embankments.

"The bridge challenges Mother Gunga," said Peroo, with a laugh.

"But when she talks I know whose voice will be the loudest."

For hours the naked men worked, screaming and shouting under the

lights. It was a hot, moonless night; the end of it was

darkened by clouds and a sudden squall that made Findlayson very

grave.

"She moves!" said Peroo, just before the dawn. "Mother Gunga is

awake! Hear!" He dipped his hand over the side of a boat and the

current mumbled on it. A little wave hit the side of a pier with

a crisp slap.

"Six hours before her time," said Findlayson, mopping his

forehead savagely. "Now we can't depend on anything. We'd

better clear all hands out of the riverbed."

Again the big gong beat, and a second time there was the rushing

of naked feet on earth and ringing iron; the clatter of tools

ceased. In the silence, men heard the dry yawn of water

crawling over thirsty sand.

Foreman after foreman shouted to Findlayson, who had posted

himself by the guard-tower, that his section of the river-bed

had been cleaned out, and when the last voice dropped Findlayson

hurried over the bridge till the iron plating of the permanent

way gave place to the temporary plank-walk over the three centre

piers, and there he met Hitchcock.

"'All clear your side?" said Findlayson. The whisper rang in the

box of lattice work.

"Yes, and the east channel's filling now. We're utterly out of

our reckoning. When is this thing down on us?"

"There's no saying. She's filling as fast as she can. Look!"

Findlayson pointed to the planks below his feet, where the sand,

burned and defiled by months of work, was beginning to whisper

and fizz.

"What orders?" said Hitchcock.

"Call the roll - count stores sit on your hunkers - and pray for

the bridge. That's all I can think of Good night. Don't risk

your life trying to fish out anything that may go downstream."

"Oh, I'll be as prudent as you are! 'Night. Heavens, how she's

filling! Here's the rain in earnest.

Findlayson picked his way back to his bank, sweeping the last of

McCartney's riveters before him. The gangs had spread themselves

along the embankments, regardless of the cold rain of the dawn,

and there they waited for the flood. Only Peroo kept his men

together behind the swell of the guard-tower, where the

stone-boats lay tied fore and aft with hawsers, wire-rope, and

chains.

A shrill wail ran along the line, growing to a yell, half fear

and half wonder: the face of the river whitened from bank to

hank between the stone facings, and the far-away spurs went out

in spouts of foam. Mother Gunga had come bank-high in haste,

and a wall of chocolate-coloured water was her messenger. There

was a shriek above the roar of the water, the complaint of the

spans coming down on their blocks as the cribs were whirled out

from under their bellies. The stone-boats groaned and ground

each other in the eddy that swung round the abutment, and their

clumsy masts rose higher and higher against the dim sky-line.

"Before she was shut between these walls we knew what she would

do. Now she isthus cramped God only knows what she will do!"

said Peroo, watching the furious turmoil round the guard~tower.

"Ohe'! Fight, then! Fight hard, for it is thus that a woman wears

herself out."

But Mother Gunga would not fight as Peroo desired. After the

first down-stream plunge there came no more walls of water, but

the river lifted herself bodily, as a snake when she drinks in

midsummer, plucking and fingering along the revetments, and

banking up behind the piers till even Findlayson began to

recalculate the strength of his work.

When day came the village gasped. "Only last night," men said,

turning to each other, "it was as a town in the river-bed! Look

now!"

And they looked and wondered afresh at the deep water, the racing

water that licked the throat of the piers. 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. Once a

dripping servant brought him food, but he could not eat; and

once he thought that he heard a faint toot from a locomotive

across the river, and then he smiled. The bridge's failure would

hurt his assistant not a little, hut Hitchcock was a young man

with his big work yet to do. For himself the crash meant

everything - everything that made a hard life worth the living.

They would say, the men of his own profession . . . he

remembered the half-pitying things that he himself had said when

Lockhart's new waterworks burst and broke down in brick-heaps and

sludge, and Lockhart's spirit broke in him and he died. He

remembered what he himself had said when the Sumao Bridge went

out in the big cyclone by the sea; and most he remembered poor

Hartopp's face three weeks later, when the shame had marked it.

His bridge was twice the size of Hartopp's, and it carried the

Findlayson truss as well as the new pier-shoe - the Findlayson

bolted shoe. There were no excuses in his service. Government

might listen, perhaps, but his own kind 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,

cowering as the wind took him. "Let me go to the temple, and I

will pray there."

"Son of a pig, pray here! Is there no return for salt fish and

curry powder and dried onions? Call aloud! Tell Mother Gunga we

have had enough. Bid her be still for the night. I cannot pray,

but I have been serving in the Kumpani's boats, and when men did

not obey my orders I -" A flourish of the wire-rope colt

rounded the sentence, and the priest, breaking free from his

disciple, fled to the village.

"Fat pig!" said Peroo. "After all that we have done for him! When

the flood is down I will see to it that we get a new guru.

Finlinson Sahib, it darkens for night now, and since yesterday

nothing has been eaten. Be wise, Sahib. No man can endure

watching and great thinking on an empty belly. Lie down, Sahib.

The river will do what the river will do.""The bridge is mine; I

cannot leave it."

"Wilt thou hold it up with thy hands, then?" said Peroo,

laughing. "I was troubled for my boats and sheers before the

flood came. Now we are in the hands of the Gods. The Sahib will

not eat and lie down? Take these, then. They are meat and good

toddy together, and they kill all weariness, besides the fever

that follows the rain. I have eaten nothing else to-day at all."

He took a small tin tobacco-box from his sodden waist-belt and

thrust it into Findlayson's hand, saying: "Nay, do not be

afraid. It is no more than opium - clean Malwa opium.

Findlayson shook two or three of the dark-brown pellets into his

hand, and hardly knowing what he did, swallowed them. The stuff

was at least a good guard against fever -the fever that was

creeping upon him out of the wet mud -and he had seen what Peroo

could do in the stewing mists of autumn on the strength of a dose

from the tin box.

Peroo nodded with bright eyes. "In a little - in a little the

Sahib will find that he thinks well again. I too will -" He

dived into his treasure-box, resettled the rain-coat over his

head, and squatted down to watch the boats. It was too dark now

to see beyond the first pier, and the night seemed to have given

the river new strength. Findlayson stood with his chin on his

chest, thinking. There was one point about one of the piers -

the seventh - that he had not fully settled in his mind. The

figures would not shape themselves to the eye except one by one

and at enormous intervals of time. There was a sound rich and

mellow in his ears like the deepest note of a double-bass - an

entrancing sound upon which he pondered for several hours, as it

seemed. Then Peroo was at his elbow, shouting that a wire hawser

had snapped and the stone-boats were loose. Findlayson saw the

fleet open and swing out fanwise to a long-drawn shriek of wire

straining across gunnels.

"A tree hit them. They will all go," cried Peroo. "The main

hawser has parted. What does the Sahib do?"

An immensely complex plan had suddenly flashed into Findlayson's

mind. He saw the ropes running from boat to boat in straight

lines and angles - each rope a line of white fire. But there was

one rope which was the master rope. He could see that rope. If

he could pull it once, it was absolutely and mathematically

certain that the disordered fleet would reassemble itself in the

backwater behind the guard-tower. But why, he wondered, was

Peroo clinging so desperately to his waist as he hastened down

the bank? It was necessary to put the Lascar aside, gently and

slowly, because it was necessary to save the boats, and,

further, to demonstrate the extreme ease of the problem that

looked so difficult. And then - but it was of no conceivable

importance - a wire-rope raced through his hand, burning it,

the high bank disappeared, and with it all the slowly

dispersing factors of the problem. He was sitting in the rainy

darkness - sitting in a boat that spun like a top, and Peroo was

standing over him.

"I had forgotten," said the Lascar, slowly, "that to those

fasting and unused, the opium is worse than any wine. Those who

die in Gunga go to the Gods. Still, I have no desire to present

myself before such great ones. Can the Sahib swim?"

"What need? He can fly - fly as swiftly as the wind," was the

thick answer.

"He is mad!" muttered Peroo, under his breath. "And he threw me

aside like a bundle of dung-cakes. Well, he will not know his

death. The boat cannot live an hour here even if she strike

nothing. It is not good to look at death with a clear eye."

He refreshed himself again from the tin box, squatted down in the

bows of the reeling, pegged, and stitched craft, staring through

the mist at the nothing that was there. A warm drowsiness crept

over Findlayson, the Chief Engineer, whose duty was with his

bridge. The heavy raindrops struck him with a thousand tingling

little thrills, and the weight of all time since time was made

hung heavy on his eyelids. He thought and perceived that he was

perfectly secure, for the water was so solid that a man could

surely step out upon it, and, standing still with his legs apart

to keep his balance - this was the most important point - would

be borne with great and easy speed to the shore. But yet a better

plan came to him. It needed only an exertion of will for the

soul to hurl the body ashore as wind drives paper, to waft it

kite-fashion to the bank. Thereafter - the boat spun dizzily -

suppose the high wind got under the freed body? Would it tower

up like a kite and pitch headlong on the far-away sands, or would

it duck about, beyond control, through all eternity? Findlayson

gripped the gunnel to anchor himself, for it seemed that he was

on the edge of taking the flight before he had settled all his

plans. Opium has more effect on the white man than the black.

Peroo was only comfortably indifferent to accidents. "She cannot

live," he grunted. "Her seams open already. If she were even a

dinghy with oars we could have ridden it out; but a box with

holes is no good. Finlinson Sahib, she fills."

"Accha! I am going away. Come thou also." In his mind, Findlayson

had already escaped from the boat, and was circling high in air

to find a rest for the sole of his foot. His body - he was

really sorry for its gross helplessness - lay in the stern, the

water rushing about its knees.

"How very ridiculous!" he said to himself from his eyrie -" that

- is Findlayson - chief of the Kashi Bridge. The poor beast is

going to be drowned, too. Drowned when it's close to shore. I'm

- I'm on shore already. Why doesn't it come along?"

To his intense disgust, he found his soul back in his body again,

and that body spluttering and choking in deep water. The pain of

the reunion was atrocious, but it was necessary, also, to fight

for the body. He was conscious of grasping wildly at wet sand,

and striding prodigiously, as one strides in a dream, to keep

foothold in the swirling water, till at last he hauled himself

clear of the hold of the river, and dropped, panting, on wet

earth.

"Not this night," said Peroo, in his ear. "The Gods have

protected us." The Lascar moved his feet cautiously, and they

rustled among dried stumps. "This is some island of last year's

indigo-crop," he went on. "We shall find no men here; but have

great care, Sahib; all the snakes of a hundred miles have been

flooded out. Here comes the lightning, on the heels of the

wind. Now we shall be able to look; but walk carefully."

Findlayson was far and far beyond any fear of snakes, or indeed

any merely human emotion. He saw, after he had rubbed the water

from his eyes, with an immense clearness, and trod, so it seemed

to himself with world-encompassing strides. Somewhere in the

night of time he had built a bridge - a bridge that spanned

illimitable levels of shining seas; but the Deluge had swept it

away, leaving this one island under heaven for Findlayson and his

companion, sole survivors of the breed of Man.

An incessant lightning, forked and blue, showed all that there

was to be seen on the little patch in the flood - a clump of

thorn, a clump of swaying creaking bamboos, and a grey gnarled

peepul overshadowing a Hindoo shrine, from whose dome floated a

tattered red flag. The holy man whose summer resting-place it was

had long since abandoned it, and the weather had broken the

red-daubed image of his god. The two men stumbled, heavy-limbed

and heavy-eyed, over the ashes of a brick-set cooking-place, and

dropped down under the shelter of the branches, while the rain

and river roared together.

The stumps of the indigo crackled, and there was a smell of

cattle, as a huge and dripping Brahminee bull shouldered his way

under the tree. The flashes revealed the trident mark of Shiva on

his flank, the insolence of head and hump, the luminous stag-like

eyes, the brow crowned with a wreath of sodden marigold blooms,

and the silky dewlap that almost swept the ground. There was a

noise behind him of other beasts coming up from the flood-line

through the thicket, a sound of heavy feet and deep breathing.

"Here be more beside ourselves," said Findlayson, his head

against the tree pole, looking through half-shut eyes, wholly at

ease.

"Truly," said Peroo, thickly, "and no small ones."

"What are they, then? I do not see clearly."

"The Gods. Who else? Look!"

"Ah, true! The Gods surely - the Gods." Findlayson smiled as his

head fell forward on his chest. Peroo was eminently right.

After the Flood, who should be alive in the land except the Gods

that made it - the Gods to whom his village prayed nightly - the

Gods who were in all men's mouths and about all men's ways. He

could not raise his head or stir a finger for the trance that

held him, and Peroo was smiling vacantly at the lightning.

The Bull paused by the shrine, his head lowered to the damp

earth. A green Parrot in the branches preened his wet wings and

screamed against the thunder as the circle under the tree filled

with the shifting shadows of beasts. There was a black Buck at

the Bull's heels-such a Buck as Findlayson in his far-away life

upon earth might have seen in dreams - a Buck with a royal head,

ebon back, silver belly, and gleaming straight horns. Beside

him, her head bowed to the ground, the green eyes burning under

the heavy brows, with restless tail switching the dead grass,

paced a Tigress, full-bellied and deep-jowled.

The Bull crouched beside the shrine, and there leaped from the

darkness a monstrous grey Ape, who seated himself man-wise in

the place of the fallen image, and the rain spilled like jewels

from the hair of his neck and shoulders.Other shadows came and

went behind the circle, among them a drunken Man flourishing

staff and drinking-bottle. Then a hoarse bellow broke out from

near the ground. "The flood lessens even now," it cried. "Hour

by hour the water falls, and their bridge still stands!"

"My bridge," said Findlayson to himself "That must be very old

work now. What have the Gods to do with my bridge?"

His eyes rolled in the darkness following the roar. A Mugger -

the blunt-nosed, ford-haunting Mugger of the Ganges -draggled

herself before the beasts, lashing furiously to right and left

with her tail.

"They have made it too strong for me. In all this night I have

only torn away a handful of planks. The walls stand. The towers

stand. They have chained my flood, and the river is not free any

more. Heavenly Ones, take this yoke away! Give me clear water

between bank and bank! It is I, Mother Gunga, that speak. The

Justice of the Gods! Deal me the Justice of the Gods!"

"What said I?" whispered Peroo. "This is in truth a Punchayet of

the Gods. Now we know that all the world is dead, save you and

I, Sahib."

The Parrot screamed and fluttered again, and the Tigress, her

ears flat to her head, snarled wickedly.

Somewhere in the shadow, a great trunk and gleaming tusks swayed

to and fro, and a low gurgle broke the silence that followed on

the snarl.

"We be here," said a deep voice, "the Great Ones. One only and

very many. Shiv, my father, is here, with Indra. Kali has

spoken already. Hanuman listens also."

"Kashi is without her Kotwal to-night," shouted the Man with the

drinking-bottle, flinging his staff to the ground, while the

island rang to the baying of hounds. "Give her the Justice of

the Gods."

"Ye were still when they polluted my waters," the great Crocodile

bellowed. "Ye made no sign when my river was trapped between the

walls. I had no help save my own strength, and that failed - the

strength of Mother Gunga failed - before their guard-towers.

What

could I do? I have done everything. Finish now, Heavenly

Ones!"

"I brought the death; I rode the spotted sick-ness from hut to

hut of their workmen, and yet they would not cease." A

nose-slitten, hide-worn Ass, lame, scissor-legged, and galled,

limped forward. "I cast the death at them out of my nostrils,

but they would not cease."

Peroo would have moved, but the opium lay heavy upon him.

." Bah!" he said, spitting. "Here is Sitala herself; Mata - the

small-pox. Has the Sahib a handkerchief to put over his face?"

"Little help! They fed me the corpses for a month, and I flung

them out on my sand-bars, but their work went forward. Demons

they are, and sons of demons! And ye left Mother Gunga alone for

their fire-carriage to make a mock of The Justice of the Gods on

the bridge-builders!"

The Bull turned the cud in his mouth and answered slowly: "If the

Justice of the Gods caught all who made a mock of holy things

there would be many dark altars in the land, mother."

"But this goes beyond a mock," said the Tigress, darting forward

a griping paw. "Thou knowest, Shiv, and ye, too, Heavenly Ones;

ye know that they have defiled Gunga. Surely they must come to

the Destroyer. Let Indra judge."

The Buck made no movement as he answered: "How long has this

evil been?

"Three years, as men count years," said the Mugger, close pressed

to the earth.

"Does Mother Gunga die, then, in a year, that she is so anxious

to see vengeance now? The deep sea was where she runs but

yesterday, and to-morrow the sea shall cover her again as the

Gods count that which men call time. Can any say that this their

bridge endures till to-morrow?" said the Buck.

There was a long hush, and in the clearing of the storm the full

moon stood up above the dripping trees.

"Judge ye, then," said the River, sullenly. "I have spoken my

shame. The flood falls still. I can do no more."

"For my own part " - it was the voice of the great Ape seated

within the shrine -" it pleases me well to watch these men,

remembering that I also builded no small bridge in the world's

youth."

"They say, too," snarled the Tiger, "that these men came of the

wreck of thy armies, Hanuman, and therefore thou hast aided -"

"They toil as my armies toiled in Lanka, and they believe that

their toil endures. Indra is too high, but Shiv, thou knowest

how the land is threaded with their fire-carriages."

"Yea, I know," said the Bull. "Their Gods instructed them in the

matter."

A laugh ran round the circle.

"Their Gods! What should their Gods know? They were born

yesterday, and those that made them are scarcely yet cold," said

the Mugger. "To-morrow their Gods will die."

"Ho!" said Peroo. "Mother Gunga talks good talk. I told that to

the padre-sahib who preached on the Mombassa, and he asked the

Burra Malum to put me in irons for a great rudeness."

"Surely they make these things to please their Gods," said the

Bull again.

"Not altogether," the Elephant rolled forth. "It is for the

profit of my mahajuns - my fat money-lenders that worship me at

each new year, when they draw my image at the head of the

account-books. I, looking over their shoulders by lamplight,

see that the names in the books are those of men in far places -

for all the towns are drawn together by the fire-carriage, and

the money comes and goes swiftly, and the account-books grow as

fat as - myself. And I, who am Ganesh of Good Luck, I bless my

peoples."

"They have changed the face of the land-which is my land. They

have killed and made new towns on my banks," said the Mugger.

"It is but the shifting of a little dirt. Let the dirt dig in the

dirt if it pleases the dirt," answered the Elephant.

"But afterwards?" said the Tiger. "Afterwards they will see that

Mother Gunga can avenge no insult, and they fall away from her

first, and later from us all, one by one. In the end, Ganesh, we

are left with naked altars."

The drunken Man staggered to his feet, and hiccupped vehemently.

"Kali lies. My sister lies. Also this my stick is the Kotwal of

Kashi, and he keeps tally of my pilgrims. When the time comes

to worship Bhairon-and it is always time - the fire-carriages

move one by one, and each bears a thousand pilgrims. They do

not come afoot any more, but rolling upon wheels, and my honour

is increased."

"Gunga, I have seen thy bed at Pryag black with the pilgrims,"

said the Ape, leaning forward, "and but for the fire-carriage

they would have come slowly and in fewer numbers. Remember."

"They come to me always," Bhairon went on thickly. "By day and

night they pray to me, all the Common People in the fields and

the roads. Who is like Bhairon to-day? What talk is this of

changing faiths? Is my staff Kotwal of Kashi for nothing? He

keeps the tally, and he says that never were so many altars as

today, and the fire carriage serves them well. Bhairon am I -

Bhairon of the Common People, and the chiefest of the Heavenly

Ones to-day. Also my staff says -"

"Peace, thou" lowed the Bull. "The worship of the schools is

mine, and they talk very wisely, asking whether I be one or

many, as is the delight of my people, and ye know what I am.

Kali, my wife, thou knowest also." "Yea, I know," said the

Tigress, with lowered head.

"Greater am I than Gunga also. For ye know who moved the minds of

men that they should count Gunga holy among the rivers. Who die

in that water - ye know how men say - come to us without

punishment, and Gunga knows that the fire-carriage has borne to

her scores upon scores of such anxious ones; and Kali knows that

she has held her chiefest festivals among the pilgrimages that

are fed by the fire-carriage. Who smote at Pooree, under the

Image there, her thousands in a day and a night, and bound the

sickness to the wheels of the fire-carriages, so that it ran from

one end of the land to the other? Who but Kali? Before the

fire-carriage came it was a heavy toil. The fire-carriages have

served thee well, Mother of Death. But I speak for mine own

altars, who am not Bhairon of the Common Folk, but Shiv. Men go

to and fro, making words and telling talk of strange Gods, and I

listen. Faith follows faith among my people in the schools, and

I have no anger; for when all words are said, and the new talk is

ended, to Shiv men return at the last."

"True. It is true," murmured Hanuman. "To Shiv and to the others,

mother, they return. I creep from temple to temple in the North,

where they worship one God and His Prophet; and presently my

image is alone within their shrines."

"Small thanks," said the Buck, turning his head slowly. "I am

that One and His Prophet also."

"Even so, father," said Hanuman. "And to the South I go who am

the oldest of the Gods as men know the Gods, and presently I

touch the shrines of the New Faith and the Woman whom we know is

hewn twelve-armed, and still they call her Mary."

"Small thanks, brother," said the Tigress. "I am that Woman."

"Even so, sister; and I go West among the fire-carriages, and

stand before the bridge-builders in many shapes, and because of

me they change their faiths and are very wise.. Ho! ho! I am the

builder of bridges, indeed - bridges between this and that, and

each bridge leads surely to Us in the end. Be content, Gunga.

Neither these men nor those that follow them mock thee at all."

"Am I alone, then, Heavenly Ones? Shall I smooth out my flood

lest unhappily I bear away their walls? Will Indra dry my

springs in the hills and make me crawl humbly between their

wharfs? Shall I bury me in the sand ere I offend?"

"And all for the sake of a little iron bar with the

fire-carriage atop. Truly, Mother Gunga is always young!" said

Ganesh the Elephant. "A child had not spoken more foolishly. Let

the dirt dig in the dirt ere it return to the dirt. I know only

that my people grow rich and praise me. Shiv has said that the

men of the schools do not forget; Bhairon is content for his

crowd of the Common People; and Hanuman laughs."

"Surely I laugh," said the Ape. "My altars are few beside those

of Ganesh or Bhairon, but the fire-carriages bring me new

worshippers from beyond the Black Water - the men who believe

that their God is toil. I run before them beckoning, and they

follow Hanuman."

"Give them the toil that they desire, then," said the River.

"Make a bar across my flood and throw the water back upon the

bridge. Once thou wast strong in Lanka, Hanuman. Stoop and lift

my bed."

"Who gives life can take life." The Ape scratched in the mud with

a long forefinger. "And yet, who would profit by the killing?

Very many would die."

There came up from the water a snatch of a love-song such as the

boys sing when they watch their cattle in the noon heats of late

spring. The parrot screamed joyously, sidling along his branch

with lowered head as the song grew louder, and in a patch of

clear moonlight stood revealed the young herd, the darling of the

Gopis, the idol of dreaming maids and of mothers ere their

children are born Krishna the Well-beloved. He stooped to knot

up his long wet hair, and the Parrot fluttered to his shoulder.

"Fleeting and singing, and singing and fleeting," hiccupped

Bhairon. "Those make thee late for the council, brother."

"And then?" said Krishna, with a laugh, throwing back his head.

"Ye can do little without me or Karma here." He fondled the

Parrot's plumage and laughed again. "What is this sitting and

talking together? I heard Mother Gunga roaring in the dark, and

so came quickly from a hut where I lay warm. And what have ye

done to Karma, that he is so wet and silent? And what does

Mother Gunga here? Are the heavens full that ye must come

paddling in the mud beast-wise? Karma, what do they do?"

"Gunga has prayed for a vengeance on the bridge-builders, and

Kali is with her. Now she bids Hanuman whelm the bridge, that

her honour may be made great," cried the Parrot. "I waited here,

knowing that thou wouldst come, O my master!

"And the Heavenly Ones said nothing? Did Gunga and the Mother of

Sorrows out-talk them? Did none speak for my people?"

"Nay," said Ganesh, moving uneasily from foot to foot; "I said it

was but dirt at play, and why should we stamp it flat?"

"I was content to let them toil -well content," said Hanuman.

"What had I to do with Gunga's anger?" said the Bull.

"I am Bhairon of the Common Folk, and this my staff is Kotwal of

all Kashi. I spoke for the Common People."

"Thou?" The young God's eyes sparkled.

"Am I not the first of the Gods in their mouths to-day?" returned

Bhairon, unabashed. "For the sake of the Common People I said -

very many wise things which I have now forgotten, but this my

staff-"

Krishna turned impatiently, saw the Mugger at his feet, and

kneeling, slipped an arm round the cold neck. "Mother," he said

gently, "get thee to thy flood again. The matter is not for thee.

What harm shall thy honour take of this live dirt? Thou hast

given them their fields new year after year, and by thy flood

they are made strong. They come all to thee at the last. What

need to slay them now? Have pity, mother, for a little - and it

is only for a little.""If it be only for a little " the slow

beast began.

"Are they Gods, then?" Krishna returned with a laugh, his eyes

looking into the dull eyes of the River. "Be certain that it is

only for a little. The Heavenly Ones have heard thee, and

presently justice will be done. Go now, mother, to the flood

again. Men and cattle are thick on the waters - the banks fall -

the villages melt because of thee."

"But the bridge - the bridge stands." The Mugger turned grunting

into the undergrowth as Krishna rose.

"It is ended," said the Tigress, viciously. "There is no more

justice from the Heavenly Ones. Ye have made shame and sport of

Gunga, who asked no more than a few score lives."

"Of my people - who lie under the leaf-roofs of the village

yonder - of the young girls, and the young men who sing to them

in the dark -of the child that will be born next morn - of that

which was begotten to-night," said Krishna. "And when all is

done, what profit? To-morrow sees them at work. Ay, if ye swept

the bridge out from end to end they would begin anew. Hear me!

Bhairon is drunk always. Hanuman mocks his people with new

riddles."

"Nay, but they are very old ones," the Ape said, laughing.

"Shiv hears the talk of the schools and the dreams of the holy

men; Ganesh thinks only of his fat traders; but I - I live with

these my people, asking for no gifts, and so receiving them

hourly."

"And very tender art thou of thy people," said the Tigress.

"They are my own. The old women dream of me turning in their

sleep; the maids look and listen for me when they go to fill

their lotahs by the river. I walk by the young men waiting

without the gates at dusk, and I call over my shoulder to the

white-beards. Ye know, Heavenly Ones, that I alone of us all

walk upon the earth continually, and have no pleasure in our

heavens so long as a green blade springs here, or there are two

voices at twilight in the standing crops. Wise are ye, but ye

live far off; forgetting whence ye came. So do I not forget.

And the fire-carriage feeds your shrines, ye say? And the

fire-carriages bring a thousand pilgrims where but ten came in

the old years? True. That is true, to-day."

"But to-morrow they are dead, brother," said Ganesh.

"Peace!" said the Bull, as Hanuman leaned forward again. "And

to-morrow, beloved - what of to-morrow?"

"This only. A new word creeping from mouth to mouth among the

Common Folk - a word that neither man nor God can lay hold of -

an evil word - a little lazy word among the Common Folk, saying

(and none know who set that word afoot) that they weary of ye,

Heavenly Ones."

The Gods laughed together softly. "And then, beloved ~" they

said.

"And to cover that weariness they, my people, will bring to thee,

Shiv, and to thee, Ganesh, at first greater offerings and a

louder noise of worship. But the word has gone abroad, and,

after, they will pay fewer dues to your fat Brahmins. Next they

will forget your altars, but so slowly that no man can say how

his forgetfulness began."

I knew - I knew! I spoke this also, but they would not hear,"

said the Tigress. "We should have slain-we should have slain!"

"It is too late now. Ye should have slain at the beginning when

the men from across the water had taught our folk nothing. Now

my people see their work, and go away thinking. They do not

think of the Heavenly Ones altogether. They think of the

fire-carriage and the other things that the bridge-builders have

done, and when your priests thrust forward hands asking alms,

they give a little unwillingly. That is the beginning, among one

or two, or five or ten - for I, moving among my people, know what

is in their hearts."

"And the end, Jester of the Gods? What shall the end be?" said

Ganesh.

The end shall be as it was in the beginning, O slothful son of

Shiv! The flame shall die upon the altars and the prayer upon

the tongue till ye become little Gods again - Gods of the jungle

-names that the hunters of rats and noosers of dogs whisper in

the thicket and among the caves -rag-Gods, pot Godlings of the

tree, and the village-mark, as ye were at the beginning. That is

the end, Ganesh, for thee, and for Bhairon - Bhairon of the

Common People."

"It is very far away," grunted Bhairon. "Also, it is a lie."

"Many women have kissed Krishna. They told him this to cheer

their own hearts when the grey hairs came, and he has told us

the tale," said the Bull, below his breath.

"Their Gods came, and we changed them. I took the Woman and made

her twelve-armed. So shall we twist all their Gods," said

Hanuman.

"Their Gods! This is no question of their Gods - one or three -

man or woman. The matter is with the people. ~ move, and not

the Gods of the bridge-builders," said Krishna.

"So be it. I have made a man worship the fire-carriage as it

stood still breathing smoke, and he knew not that he worshipped

me," said Hanuman the Ape. "They will only change a little the

names of their Gods. I shall lead the builders of the bridges as

of old; Shiv shall be worshipped in the schools by such as doubt

and despise their fellows; Ganesh shall have his mahajuns, and

Bhairon the donkey-drivers, the pilgrims, and the sellers of

toys. Beloved, they will do no more than change the names, and

that we have seen a thousand times."

"Surely they will do no more than change the names," echoed

Ganesh; but there was an uneasy movement among the Gods.

"They will change more than the names. Me alone they cannot kill,

so long as a maiden and a man meet together or the spring

follows the winter rains. Heavenly Ones, not for nothing have I

walked upon the earth. My people know not now what they know;

but I, who live with them, I read their hearts. Great Kings, the

beginning of the end is born already. The fire-carriages shout

the names of new Gods that are not the old under new names.

Drink now and eat greatly! Bathe your faces in the smoke of the

altars before they grow cold! Take dues and listen to the

cymbals and the drums, Heavenly Ones, while yet there are

flowers and songs. As men count time the end is far off; but as

we who know reckon it is to-day. I have spoken."

The young God ceased, and his brethren looked at each other long

in silence.

"This I have not heard before," Peroo whispered in his

companion's ear. "And yet sometimes, when I oiled the brasses in

the engine-room of the Goorkha, I have wondered if our priests

were so wise - so wise. The day is coming, Sahib. They will be

gone by the morning."

A yellow light broadened in the sky, and the tone of the river

changed as the darkness withdrew.

Suddenly the Elephant trumpeted aloud as though man had goaded

him.

"Let Indra judge. Father of all, speak thou! What of the things

we have heard? Has Krishna lied indeed? Or --"

"Ye know," said the Buck, rising to his feet. "Ye know the Riddle

of the Gods. When Brahm ceases to dream, the Heavens and the

Hells and Earth disappear. Be content. Brahm dreams still. The

dreams come and go, and the nature of the dreams changes, but

still Brahm dreams. Krishna has walked too long upon earth, and

yet I love him the more for the tale he has told. The Gods

change, beloved - all save One!"

"Ay, all save one that makes love in the hearts of men," said

Krishna, knotting his girdle. "It is but a little time to wait,

and ye shall know if I lie."Truly it is but a little time, as

thou sayest, and we shall know. Get thee to thy huts again,

beloved, and make sport for the young things, for still Brahm

dreams. Go, my children! Brahm dreams and till he wakes the

Gods die not."

"Whither went they -" said the Lascar, awe-struck, shivering a

little with the cold.

"God knows!" said Findlayson. The river and the island lay in

full daylight now, and there was never mark of hoof or pug on

the wet earth under the peepul. Only a parrot screamed in the

branches, bringing down showers of water-drops as he fluttered

his wings.

"Up! We are cramped with cold! Has the opium died out? Canst

thou move, Sahib?"

Findlayson staggered to his feet and shook himself. His bead swam

and ached, but the work of the opium was over, and, as he

sluiced his forehead in a pool, the Chief Engineer of the Kashi

Bridge was wondering how he had managed to fall upon the island,

what chances the day offered of return, and, above all, how his

work stood.

"Peroo, I have forgotten much I was under the guard-tower

watching the river; and then --- Did the flood sweep us away?"

"No. The boats broke loose, Sahib, and" (if the Sahib had

forgotten about the opium, decidedly Peroo would not remind him)

"in striving to retie them, so it seemed to me but it was dark -

a rope caught the Sahib and threw him upon a boat. Considering

that we two, with Hitchcock Sahib, built, as it were, that

bridge, I came also upon the boat, which came riding on

horseback, as it were, on the nose of this island, and so,

splitting, cast us ashore. I made a great cry when the boat left

the wharf and without doubt Hitchcock Sahib will come for us. As

for the bridge, so many have died in the building that it cannot

fall."A fierce sun, that drew out all the smell of the sodden

land, had followed the storm, and in that clear light there was

no room for a man to think of the dreams of the dark. Findlayson

stared upstream, across the blaze of moving water, till his eyes

ached. There was no sign of any bank to the Ganges, much less of

a bridge-line.

"We came down far," he said. "It was wonderful that we were not

drowned a hundred times."

"That was the least of the wonder, for no man dies before his

time. I have seen Sydney, I have seen London, and twenty great

ports, but "- Peroo looked at the damp, discoloured shrine under

the peepul -" never man has seen that we saw here."

What?"

"Has the Sahib forgotten; or do we black men only see the Gods?"

"There was a fever upon me." Findlayson was still looking

uneasily across the water. "It seemed that the island was full

of beasts and men talking, but I do not remember. A boat could

live in this water now, I think."

"Oho! Then it is true. 'When Brahm ceases to dream, the Gods

die.' Now I know, indeed, what he meant. Once, too, the guru

said as much to me; but then I did not understand. Now I am

wise.

"What?" said Findlayson, over his shoulder.

Peroo went on as if he were talking to himself "Six - seven - ten

monsoons since, I was watch on the fo'c'sle of the Rewah - the

Kumpani's big boat - and there was a big tufan; green and black

water beating, and I held fast to the life-lines, choking under

the waters. Then I thought of the Gods - of Those whom we saw

to-night "- he stared curiously at Findlayson's back, but the

white man was looking across the flood. "Yes, I say of Those

whom we saw this night past, and I called upon Them to protect

me. And while I prayed, still keeping my lookout, a big wave

came and threw me forward upon the ring of the great black

bow-anchor, and the Rewah rose high and high, leaning towards

the left-hand side, and the water drew away from beneath her

nose, and I lay upon my belly, holding the ring, and looking

down into those great deeps. Then I thought, even in the face of

death: If I lose hold I die, and for me neither the Rewah nor my

place by the galley where the rice is cooked, nor Bombay, nor

Calcutta,nor even London, will be any more for me. 'How shall I

be sure,' I said, 'that the Gods to whom I pray will abide at

all?' This I thought, and the Rewah dropped her nose as a hammer

falls, and all the sea came in and slid me backwards along the

fo'c'sle and over the break of the fo'c'sle, and I very badly

bruised my shin against the donkey-engine: but I did not die,

and I have seen the Gods. They are good for live men, but for

the dead . . . . They have spoken Themselves. Therefore, when I

come to the village I will beat the guru for talking riddles

which are no riddles. When Brahm ceases to dream the Gods go."

"Look up-stream. The light blinds. Is there smoke yonder?"

Peroo shaded his eyes with his hands. "He is a wise man and

quick. Hitchcock Sahib would not trust a rowboat. He has

borrowed the Rao Sahib's steam-launch, and comes to look for us.

I have always said that there should have been a steam-launch on

the bridge works for us.

The territory of the Rao of Baraon lay within ten miles of the

bridge; and Findlayson and Hitchcock had spent a fair portion of

their scanty leisure in playing billiards and shooting blackbuck

with the young man. He had been bearled by an English tutor of

sporting tastes for some five or six years, and was now royally

wasting the revenues accumulated during his minority by the

Indian

Government. His steam-launch, with its silver-plated rails,

striped silk awning, and mahogany decks, was a new toy which

Findlayson had found horribly in the way when the Rao came to

look at the bridge works.

"It's great luck," murmured Findlayson, but he was none the less

afraid, wondering what news might be of the bridge.

The gaudy blue-and-white funnel came downstream swiftly. They

could see Hitchcock in the bows, with a pair of opera-glasses,

and his face was unusually white. Then Peroo hailed, and the

launch made for the tail of the island. The Rao Sahib, in tweed

shooting-suit and a seven-hued turban, waved his royal hand, and

Hitchcock shouted. But he need have asked no questions, for

Findlayson's first demand was for his bridge.

"All serene! 'Gad, I never expected to see you again, Findlayson.

You're seven koss downstream. Yes; there's not a stone shifted

anywhere; but how are you? I borrowed the Rao Sahib's launch,

and he was good enough to come along. Jump in."Ah, Finlinson,

you are very well, eh? That was most unprecedented calamity last

night, eh? My royal palace, too, it leaks like the devil, and

the crops will also be short all about my country. Now you shall

back her out, Hitchcock. I - I do not understand steam-engines.

You are wet? You are cold, Finlinson? I have some things to eat

here, and you will take a good drink."

"I'm immensely grateful, Rao Sahib. I believe you've saved my

life. How did Hitchcock -"

"Oho! His hair was upon end. He rode to me in the middle of the

night and woke me up in the arms of Morpheus. I was most truly

concerned, Finlinson, so I came too. My head-priest he is very

angry just now. We will go quick, Mister Hitchcock. I am due to

attend at twelve forty-five in the state temple, where we

sanctify some new idol. If not so I would have asked you to

spend the day with me. They are dam-bore, these religious

ceremonies, Finlinson, eh?"

Peroo, well known to the crew, had possessed himself of the

inlaid wheel, and was taking the launch craftily up-stream. But

while he steered he was, in his mind, handling two feet of

partially untwisted wire-rope; and the back upon which he beat

was the back of his guru.

End of THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

A WALKING DELEGATE

ACCORDING to the custom of Vermont, Sunday afternoon is

salting-time on the farm, and, unless something very important

happens, we attend to the salting ourselves. Dave and Pete, the

red oxen, are treated first; they stay in the home meadow ready

for work on Monday. Then come the cows, with Pan, the calf, who

should have been turned into veal long ago, but survived on

account of his manners; and lastly the horses, scattered through

the seventy acres of the Back Pasture.

You must go down by the brook that feeds the clicking, bubbling

water-ram; up through the sugar-bush, where the young maple

undergrowth closes round you like a shallow sea; next follow the

faint line of an old county-road running past two green hollows

fringed with wild rose that mark the cellars of two ruined

houses; then by Lost Orchard, where nobody ever comes except in

cider-time; then across another brook, and so into the Back

Pasture. Half of it is pine and hemlock and Spruce, with sumach

and little juniper bushes, and the other half is grey rock and

boulder and moss, with green streaks of brake and swamp; but the

horses like it well enough - our own, and the others that are

turned down there to feed at fifty cents a week. Most people

walk to the Back Pasture, and find it very rough work; but one

can get there in a buggy, if the horse knows what is expected of

him. The safest conveyance is our coupe. This began life as a

buckboard, and we bought it for five dollars from a sorrowful man

who had no other sort of possessions; and the seat came off one

night when we were turning a corner in a hurry. After that

alteration it made a beautiful salting-machine, if you held

tight, because there was nothing to catch your feet when you fell

out, and the slats rattled tunes.

One Sunday afternoon we went out with the salt as usual. It was

a broiling hot day, and we could not find the horses anywhere

till we let Tedda Gabler, the bobtailed mare who throws up the

dirt with her big hooves exactly as a tedder throws hay, have

her head. Clever as she is, she tipped the coupe over in a

hidden brook before she came out on a ledge of rock where all

the horses had gathered, and were switching flies. The Deacon

was the first to call to her. He is a very dark iron-grey

four-year-old, son of Grandee. He has been handled since he was

two, was driven in a light cart before he was three, and now

ranksas an absolutely steady lady's horse - proof against

steam-rollers, grade-crossings, and street processions.

"Salt!" said the Deacon, joyfully. "You're dreffle late, Tedda."

"Any - any place to cramp the coupe?" Tedda panted. "It weighs

turr'ble this weather. I'd 'a' come sooner, but they didn't know

what they wanted - ner haow. Fell out twice, both of 'em. I

don't understand sech foolishness."

"You look consider'ble het up. 'Guess you'd better cramp her

under them pines, an' cool off a piece."

Tedda scrambled on the ledge, and cramped the coupe in the shade

of a tiny little wood of pines, while my companion and I lay

down among the brown, silky needles, and gasped. All the home

horses were gathered round us, enjoying their Sunday leisure.

There were Rod and Rick, the seniors on the farm. They were the

regular road-pair, bay with black points, full brothers, aged,

sons of a Hambletonian sire and a Morgan dam. There were Nip

and Tuck, seal-browns, rising six, brother and sister, Black

Hawks by birth, perfectly matched, just finishing their

education, and as handsome a pair as man could wish to find in a

forty-mile drive. There was Muldoon, our ex-car-horse, bought at

a venture, and any colour you choose that is not white; and

Tweezy, who comes from Kentucky, with an affliction of his left

hip, which makes him a little uncertain how his hind legs are

moving. He and Muldoon had been hauling gravel all the week for

our new road. The Deacon you know already. Last of all, and

eating something, was our faithful Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, the

black buggy-horse, who had seen us through every state of weather

and road, the horse who was always standing in harness before

some door or other - a philosopher with the appetite of a shark

and the manners of an archbishop. Tedda Gabler was a new

"trade,"with a reputation for vice which was really the result of

bad driving. She had one working gait, which she could hold till

further notice; a Roman nose; a large, prominent eye; a

shaving-brush of a tail; and an irritable temper. She took her

salt through her bridle; but the others trotted up nuzzling and

wickering for theirs, till we emptied it on the clean rocks.

They were all standing at ease, on three legs for the most part,

talking the ordinary gossip of the Back Pasture - about the

scarcity of water, and gaps in the fence, and how the early

windfalls tasted that season - when little Rick blew the last few

grains of his allowance into a crevice, and said:

"Hurry, boys! 'Might ha' knowed that livery plug would be

around."

We heard a clatter of hooves, and there climbed up from the

ravine below a fifty-center transient--a wall-eyed, yellow

frame-house of a horse, sent up to board from a livery-stable in

town, where they called him "The Lamb," and never let him out

except at night and to strangers. My companion, who knew and had

broken most of the horses, looked at the ragged hammer-head as it

rose, and said quietly:

"Ni-ice beast. Man-eater, if he gets the chance - see his eye.

Kicker, too - see his hocks. Western horse."

The animal lumbered up, snuffling and grunting. His feet showed

that he had not worked for weeks and weeks, and our creatures

drew together significantly.

"As usual," he said, with an underhung sneer-"bowin' your heads

before the Oppressor that comes to spend his leisure gloatin'

over you."

"Mine's done," said the Deacon; he licked up the remnant of his

salt, dropped his nose in his master's hand, and sang a little

grace all to himself. The Deacon has the most enchanting

manners of any one I know.

"An' fawnin' on them for what is your inalienable right. It's

humiliatin'," said the yellow horse, sniffing to see if he could

find a few spare grains.

"Go daown hill, then, Boney," the Deacon replied. "Guess you'll

find somethin' to eat still, if yer hain't hogged it all. You've

ett more'n any three of us to-day - an' day 'fore that - an' the

last two months - sence you've been here."

"I am not addressin' myself to the young an' immature. I am

speakin' to those whose opinion an' experience commands

respect."

I saw Rod raise his head as though he were about to make a

remark; then he dropped it again, and stood three-cornered, like

a plough-horse. Rod can cover his mile in a shade under three

minutes on an ordinary road to an ordinary buggy. He is

tremendously powerful behind, but, like most Hambletonians, he

grows a trifle sullen as he gets older. No one can love Rod

very much; but no one can help respecting him.

"I wish to wake those," the yellow horse went on, "to an abidin'

sense o' their wrongs an' their injuries an' their outrages."

"Haow's that?" said Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, dreamily. He

thought Boney was talking of some kind of feed.

"An' when I say outrages and injuries" - Boney waved his tail

furiously "I mean 'em, too. Great Oats! That's just what I do

mean, plain an' straight."

"The gentleman talks quite earnest," said Tuck, the mare, to Nip,

her brother.There's no doubt thinkin' broadens the horizons o'

the mind. His language is quite lofty."

"Hesh, sis," Nip answered. "He hain't widened nothin' 'cep' the

circle he's ett in pasture. They feed words fer beddin' where he

comes from."

"It's elegant talkin', though," Tuck returned, with an

unconvinced toss of her pretty, lean little head.

The yellow horse heard her, and struck an attitude which he meant

to be extremely impressive. It made him look as though he had

been badly stuffed.

"Now I ask you, I ask you without prejudice an' without

favour,-what has Man the Oppressor ever done for you? - Are you

not inalienably entitled to the free air O' heaven, blowin'

acrost this boundless prairie?"

"Hev ye ever wintered here?" said the Deacon, merrily, while the

others snickered. "It's kinder cool."

"Not yet," said Boney. "I come from the boundless confines o'

Kansas, where the noblest of our kind have their abidin'-place

among the sunflowers on the threshold o' the settin' sun in his

glory."

"An' they sent you ahead as a sample ~" said Rick, with an amused

quiver of his long, beautifully groomed tail, as thick and as

fine and as wavy as a quadroon's back hair.

"Kansas, sir, needs no advertisement. Her native sons rely on

themselves an' their native sires. Yes, sir."

Then Tweezy lifted up his wise and polite old head. His

affliction makes him bashful as a rule, but he is ever the most

courteous of horses.

"Excuse me, suh," he said slowly, "but, unless I have been

misinfohmed, most of your prominent siahs, suh, are impo'ted

from Kentucky; an' I'm from Paduky."

There was the least little touch of pride in the last words.

"Any horse dat knows beans," said Muldoon, suddenly (he had been

standing with his hairy chin on Tweezy's broad quarters), "gits

outer Kansas 'fore dey crip his shoes. I blew in dere from

Ioway in de days o' me youth an' innocence, an' I wuz grateful

when dey boxed me fer N' York. You can't tell me anything about

Kansas I don't wanter fergit. De Belt Line stables ain't no

Hoffman House, but dey're Vanderbilts 'longside ' Kansas."

"What the horses o' Kansas think to-day, the horses of America

will think to-morrow; an' I tell you that when the horses of

America rise in their might, the day o' the Oppressor is ended."

There was a pause, till Rick said, with a little grunt:

"Ef you put it that way, every one of us has riz in his might,

'cep' Marcus, mebbe. Marky, 'j ever rise in yer might?"

"Nope," said Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, thoughtfully quidding

over a mouthful of grass. "I seen a heap o' fools try, though."

"You admit that you riz ~" said the Kansas horse, excitedly.

"Then why - why in Kansas did you ever go under again?"

"'Horse can't walk on his hind legs all the time," said the

Deacon.

"Not when he's jerked over on his back 'fore he knows what

fetched him. We've all done it, Boney," said Rick. "Nip an' Tuck

they tried it, spite o' what the Deacon told 'em; an' the Deacon

he tried it, spite o' what me an' Rod told him; an' me an' Rod

tried it, spite o' what Grandee told us; an' I guess Grandee he

tried it, spite Oo' what his dam told him. It's the same old

circus from generation to generation. 'Colt can't see why he's

called on to back. Same old rearm' on end - straight up. Same old

feelin' that you've bested 'em this time. Same old little yank at

your mouth when you're up good an' tall. Same old Pegasus-act,

wonderin' where you'll 'light. Same old wop when you hit the dirt

with your head where your tail should be, and your in'ards shook

up like a bran-mash. Same old voice in your ear: 'Waal, ye little

fool, an' what did you reckon to make by that?' We're through

with risin in our might on this farm. We go to pole er single,

accordin' ez we're hitched."

"An' Man the Oppressor sets an' gloats over you, same as he's

settin' now. Hain't that been your experience, madam?"

This last remark was addressed to Tedda; and any one could see

with half an eye that poor, old anxious, fidgety Tedda, stamping

at the flies, must have left a wild and tumultuous youth behind

her.

"'Pends on the man," she answered, shifting from one foot to the

other, and addressing herself to the home horses. "They abused

me dreffle when I was young. I guess I was sperrity an' nervous

some, but they didn't allow for that.'Twas in Monroe County, Noo

York, an' sence then till I come here, I've run away with more

men than 'u'd fill a boardin'-house. Why, the man that sold me

here he says to the boss, s' he: 'Mind, now, I've warned you.

'Twon't be none of my fault if she sheds you daown the road.

Don't you drive her in a top-buggy, ner 'thout winkers,' s' he,

'ner 'thought this bit ef you look to come home behind her.' 'N'

the fust thing the boss did was to git the top-buggy.

"Can't say as I like top-buggies," said Rick; "they don't balance

good."

"Suit me to a ha'ar," said Marcus Aurelius Antoninus. "Top-buggy

means the baby's in behind, an' I kin stop while she gathers the

pretty flowers - yes, an' pick a maouthful, too. The women-folk

all say I hev to be humoured, an' -I don't kerry things to the

sweatin'-point."

"'Course I've no prejudice against a top-buggy s' long 's I can

see it," Tedda went on quickly. "It's ha'f-seein' the pesky

thing bobbin' an' balancn' behind the winkers gits on my nerves.

Then the boss looked at the bit they'd sold with me, an' s' he:

'Jiminy Christmas! This 'u'd make a clothes-horse Stan' 'n end!'

Then he gave me a plain bar bit, an' fitted it 's if there was

some feelin' to my maouth."

"Hain't ye got any, Miss Tedda?" said Tuck, who has a mouth like

velvet, and knows it.

"Might 'a' had, Miss Tuck, but I've forgot. Then he give me an

open bridle,- my style's an open bridle - an' - I dunno as I

ought to tell this by rights -he -give - me - a kiss."

"My!" said Tuck, "I can't tell fer the shoes o' me what makes

some men so fresh."

"Pshaw, sis," said Nip, "what's the sense in actin' so? You git a

kiss reg'lar 's hitchin'-up time."

"Well, you needn't tell, smarty," said Tuck, with a squeal and a

kick.

"I'd heard o' kisses, o' course," Tedda went on, "but they hadn't

come my way specially. I don't mind tellin' I was that took

aback at that man's doin's he might ha' lit fire-crackers on my

saddle. Then we went out jest 's if a kiss was nothin', an' I

wasn't three strides into my gait 'fore I felt the boss knoo his

business, an' was trustin' me. So I studied to please him, an'

whenever took the whip from the dash - a whip drives me plumb

distracted - an' the upshot was that - waal, I've come up the

Back Pasture to-day, an' the coupe's tipped clear over twice, an'

I've waited till 'twuz fixed each time. You kin judge for

yourselves. I don't set up to be no better than my neighbours,-

specially with my tail snipped off the way 'tis,- but I want you

all to know Tedda's quit fightin' in harness or out of it, 'cep'

when there's a born fool in the pasture, stuffin' his stummick

with board that ain't rightly hisn, 'cause he hain't earned it."

"Meanin' me, madam?" said the yellow horse.

"Ef the shoe fits, clinch it," said Tedda, snorting. "I named no

names, though, to be sure, some folks are mean enough an' greedy

enough to do 'thout 'em."

"There's a deal to be forgiven to ignorance," said the yellow

horse, with an ugly look in his blue eye.

"Seemin'ly, yes; or some folks 'u'd ha' been kicked raound the

pasture 'bout onct a minute sence they came - board er no

board."

"But what you do not understand, if you will excuse me, madam, is

that the whole principle o' servitood, which includes keep an'

feed, starts from a radically false basis; an' I am proud to say

that me an' the majority o' the horses o' Kansas think the

entire concern should be relegated to the limbo of exploded

superstitions. I say we're too progressive for that. I say we're

too enlightened for that. 'Twas good enough 's long 's we didn't

think, but naow - but naow - a new loominary has arisen on the

horizon!"

"Meanin' you?" said the Deacon.

"The horses o' Kansas are behind me with their multitoodinous

thunderin' hooves, an' we say, simply but grandly, that we take

our stand with all four feet on the inalienable rights of the

horse, pure and simple,- the high-toned child o' nature, fed by

the same wavin' grass, cooled by the same ripplin' brook-- yes,

an' warmed by the same gen'rous sun as falls impartially on the

outside an' the inside of the pampered machine o' the

trottin'-track, or the bloated coupe-horses o' these yere

Eastern cities. Are we not the same flesh an' blood?"

"Not by a bushel an' a half," said the Deacon, under his breath.

"Grandee never was in Kansas."

"My! Ain't that elegant, though, abaout the wavin' grass an' the

ripplin' brooks?" Tuck whispered in Nip's ear. "The gentleman's

real convincin' I think."

"I say we are the same flesh an' blood! Are we to be separated,

horse from horse, by the artificial barriers of a

trottin'-record, or are we to look down upon each other on the

strength o' the gifts o' nature - an extry inch below the knee,

or slightly more powerful quarters? What's the use o' them

advantages to you? Man the Oppressor comes along, an' sees

you're likely an' good-lookin', an' grinds you to the face o'

the earth. What for? For his own pleasure: for his own

convenience! Young an' old, black an' bay, white an' grey,

there's no distinctions made between us. We're ground up

together under the remorseless teeth o' the engines of

oppression !"

"Guess his breechin' must ha' broke goin' daown-hill," said the

Deacon. "Slippery road, maybe, an' the buggy come onter him, an'

he didn't know 'nough to hold back. That don't feel like teeth,

though. Maybe he busted a shaft, an' it pricked him."

"An' I come to you from Kansas, wavin' the tail o' friendship to

all an' sundry, an' in the name of the uncounted millions o'

pure-minded, high-toned horses now strugglin' towards the light

o' freedom, I say to you, Rub noses with us in our sacred an'

holy cause. The power is yourn. Without you, I say, Man the

Oppressor cannot move himself from place to place. Without you

he cannot reap, he cannot sow, he cannot plough."

Mighty odd place, Kansas!" said Marcus Aurelius Antoninus.

"Seemin'ly they reap in the spring an' plough in the fall.

'Guess it's right fer them, but 'twould make me kinder giddy."

"The produc's of your untirin' industry would rot on the ground

if you did not weakly consent to help him. Let 'em rot, I say!

Let him call you to the stables in vain an' nevermore! Let him

shake his ensnarin' oats under your nose in vain! Let the

Brahmas roost in the buggy, an' the rats run riot round the

reaper! Let him walk on his two hind feet till they blame well

drop off! Win no more soul-destroyn' races for his pleasure!

Then, an' not till then, will Man the Oppressor know where he's

at. Quit workin', fellow-sufferers an' slaves! Kick! Rear!

Plunge! Lie down on the shafts, an' woller! Smash an' destroy!

The conflict will be but short, an' the victory is certain.

After that we can press our inalienable rights to eight quarts

o' oats a day, two good blankets, an' a fly-net an' the best o'

stablin'."

The yellow horse shut his yellow teeth with a triumphant snap;

and Tuck said, With a sigh: 'Seems's if somethin' ought to be

done. Don't seem right, somehow,- oppressin' us an all,- to my

way o' thinkin'."

Said Muldoon, in a far-away and sleepy voice:

"Who in Vermont's goin' to haul de inalienable oats? Dey weigh

like Sam Hill, an' sixty bushel at dat allowance ain't goin' to

last t'ree weeks here. An' dere's de winter hay for five

mont's!"