This shadow relieved the stress. F., much revived, insisted that we
proceed. So we marched and passed many more hills.
In the meantime it began to rain, after the whole-hearted tropical
fashion. In two minutes we were drenched to the skin. I kept my matches
and notebook dry by placing them in the crown of my cork helmet. After
the intense heat this tepid downpour seemed to us delicious.
And then, quite unexpectedly, of course, we came around a bend to make
out through the sheets of rain the steel girders of the famous Tsavo
bridge.[15]
We clambered up a steep, slippery bank to the right-of-way, along which
we proceeded half a mile to the station. This consisted of two or three
native huts, a house for the East Indian in charge, and the station
building itself. The latter was a small frame structure with a narrow
floorless veranda. There was no platform. Drawing close on all sides was
the interminable thorn scrub. Later, when the veil of rain had been
drawn aside, we found that Tsavo, perched on a hillside, looked abroad
over a wide prospect. For the moment all we saw was a dark, dismal,
dripping station, wherein was no sign of life.
We were beginning to get chilly, and we wanted very much some tea, fire,
a chance to dry, pending the arrival of our safari. We jerked open the
door and peered into the inky interior.
"Babu!" yelled F., "Babu!"
From an inner back room came the faint answer in most precise English,--
"I can-not come; I am pray-ing.
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