Apparently nothing could be more simple.  Beatrice, being on kitchen duty, had access to the salt-box.  She purloined a good breakfastcupful, and divided the spoils with her four confederates.  They all rubbed the salt carefully into the roots of their hair.  Next morning, however, when they essayed to brush it out again, it obstinately refused to budge, and remained hard and gritty among their tresses.  They were very much concerned.  What was to be done?  The only obvious remedy was to wash their hair.  Now the one drawback of the Camp was its shortage of water.  The daily supply had to be carried in buckets from the farm, and as, owing to the warm dry weather, the well was getting low, their allowance at present was rather small, and had to be carefully husbanded.  The amount doled out for washing purposes certainly was quite inadequate for the due rinsing of five plentiful heads of hair.

“I suppose we shall just have to grin and bear it till we can get home and can mermaid properly in a bath!” sighed Mary.

“Oh, I can’t!  I’m going to wash mine somehow.  Look here, suppose we sneak off quietly this afternoon, and go on a water hunt?”

“There isn’t a stream or a pond anywhere near.”

“We haven’t tried the wood!”

“Well, we’re not allowed there, of course.”

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t go.  The young pheasants must be all hatched, and running about by this time, so what harm could we do?  Besides which, nobody’s troubling about preserving game during the war.  They’re shooting Germans instead of birds this year.”

“Very likely the gamekeeper has enlisted,” suggested Beatrice, “in which case there’d be no one to stop us.”

Now the strict law of the Camp confined the girls to the pasture, but as it was the last week of the quarantine, they were beginning to grow a little slack about rules.  The five victims of the salt cure waited until Miss Huntley and Nurse Robinson were enjoying their afternoon siesta; then, without waiting for any permission, they climbed the fence into the lane, found a thin place in the hedge, and scrambled into the wood.  It was a thrillingly exciting experience.  Rather scratched and panting, they surveyed the prospect.  Trees were everywhere, with a thick undergrowth of bramble and bracken.  Apparently there was no path at all.

“I suppose we shall just have to wander about till we see a pond!” remarked Agatha.

“I believe some people can find water with a forked hazel twig,” said Olave.  “They hold it loosely in their hands, and it jerks when the water’s near.  I wish I knew how to do it!”

“Oh, water-finders are occult people,” laughed Beatrice, “the sort that see spooks and do table-turning, you know.  Besides, they find underground water, and tell where wells ought to be dug.  We want a pond which any one can see with the naked eye, without being endowed with psychic powers.  My natural reason tells me to go down hill, and perhaps we’ll strike it in a hollow.”