Within three days of this the plague of Bluebottles was over, and the boys realized that, judging by its effects, the keeping of a dirty camp is a crime.

One other thing old Caleb insisted on:  “Yan,” said he, “you didn’t ought to drink that creek water now; it ain’t hardly runnin’.  The sun hez it het up, an’ it’s gettin’ too crawly to be healthy.”

“Well, what are we going to do?” said Sam, though he might as well have addressed the brook itself.

“What can we do, Mr. Clark?”

“Dig a well!”

“Phew!  We’re out here for fun!” was Sam’s reply.

“Dig an Injun well,” Caleb said.  “Half an hour will do it.  Here, I’ll show you.”

He took the spade and, seeking a dry spot, about twenty feet from the upper end of the pond he dug a hole some two feet square.  By the time he was down three feet the water was oozing in fast.  He got it down about four feet and then had to stop, on account of inflow.  He took a bucket and bailed the muddy stuff out right to the bottom, and let it fill up to be again bailed out.  After three bailings the water came in cold, sweet, and pure as crystal.

“There,” said he, “that water is from your pond, but it is filtered through twenty feet of earth and sand.  That’s the way to get cool, pure water out of the dirtiest of swamps.  That’s an Injun well.”

VIII

The Indian Drum

  “Oh, that hair of horse and skin of sheep should
  Have such power to move the souls of men.”

“If you were real Injun you’d make a drum of that,” said Caleb to Yan, as they came to a Basswood blown over by a recent storm and now showing its weakness, for it was quite hollow—­a mere shell.

“How do they do it?  I want to know how.”

“Get me the axe.”

Yan ran for the axe.  Caleb cut out a straight unbroken section about two feet long.  This they carried to camp.

“Coorse ye know,” said Caleb, “ye can’t have a drum without skins for heads.”

“What kind of skins?”

“Oh, Horse, Dog, Cow, Calf—­’most any kind that’s strong enough.”

“I got a Calfskin in our barn, an’ I know where there’s another in the shed, but it’s all chawed up with Rats.  Them’s mine.  I killed them Calves.  Paw give me the skins for killin’ an’ skinnin’ them.  Oh, you jest ought to see me kill a Calf—­”

Guy was going off into one of his autopanegyrics when Sam who was now being rubbed on a sore place, gave a “Whoop!” and grabbed the tow-tuft with a jerk that sent the Third War Chief sprawling and ended the panegyric in the usual volley of “you-let-me-’lones.”

“Oh, quit, Sam,” objected Little Beaver.  “You can’t stop a Dog barking.  It’s his nature.”  Then to Guy:  “Never mind, Guy; you are not hurt.  I’ll bet you can beat him hunting Deer, and you can see twice as far as he can.”

“Yes, I kin; that’s what makes him so mad.  I’ll bet I kin see three times as far—­maybe five times,” was the answer in injured tones.