“That’ll give you a little time to think about gettin’ water, then,” says I, for I was still considerable r’iled up about that.
Mark grinned like the cat that ate the canary-bird. He always grins like that when he’s got the best of you, so I knew he had been figuring about water and had found a way to get it.
“There’s a f-f-five-pound pancake-flour bag up with the provisions,” says he. “Fetch it down.”
I ran up and got it, and then sat down to see what was going to happen. Mark took the bag and measured it careful. Then he took some of the clothes-line wire—there was about six feet of it left—and twisted and turned and braided it into a hoop just a mite smaller than the top of the bag. When that was done he put it inside the bag about two inches down and folded the thick, tough paper over it. Then, with string out of his pocket, he wound it over and over, punching holes every little ways to pass the string through. He was mighty careful and particular about it. When it was all done he had a bucket that would hold a good gallon of water. Another short piece of wire made the handle.
“There,” says he, “that’ll hold water.”
“Yes,” says I, “but the water’s quite a step down. How you goin’ to reach it?”
“The enemy f-f-furnished us somethin’ to reach it with,” says he, pointing to the two-by-four we had captured. “That’ll reach, I calc’late.”
Sure enough, it would. All we had to do was drive a nail in the end and make a hook of it to hold the pail. I was so thirsty I could hardly wait, so I grabbed the contraption as soon as Mark finished it and rushed off to where I could reach water. It worked a little clumsy, but it did the business. I didn’t have much trouble filling the pail.
You’d better believe water never tasted so good before. Mark was perfectly willing to drink, and Plunk got away with about a quart. Motu didn’t act very excited about it, though he drank hearty enough.
“I told you,” says he, “that your Mark Tidd could do it.”