“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.”