‘Two miles! Gee!’ Pud looked from the pail to Harmon. ‘Well, I guess if you went two miles for it, we oughtn’t to kick. Just the same, it’s too warm to drink. And my throat’s as dry as――as――’ ‘So’s mine,’ said Tim. ‘If you-all wants some col’ water,’ announced Harmon, ‘I’ll get you plenty of it.’ ‘Where?’ asked Pud. Harmon pointed to the bank of the river. ‘Right yonder. I got to have me a shovel, though.’ ‘Gee, that’s so. I never thought of that, Tim. All we’ve got to do is dig a hole back from the river a bit and let it fill up. But we haven’t any shovel!’ ‘That’s a fact,’ owned Tim. ‘And I thought we’d fetched everything we’d need, too!’ Harmon, though, was resourceful, for, lacking a shovel, he used a large iron spoon and, selecting a spot half a dozen feet from the edge of the water, soon had a hole dug. Anxiously, their tongues almost hanging out, the others watched the operation. From all sides of the tiny well water trickled in, but Tim viewed the muddy result distastefully. ‘Gosh,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t drink that stuff! Why, it might poison me!’ ‘Hold your horses,’ advised Pud. ‘Wait till it settles.’ Harmon, though, baled out most of the first lot very carefully. Then the hole was allowed to fill once more, and while it settled, Pud and Tim got into their swimming-trunks. By the time they were ready for the river, Harmon announced the water ready for drinking. He had got a tin cup from the launch and now he dipped it into the little reservoir and offered it to Tim. Tim looked at it, smelled it, and finally tasted it. Then he drank it at two gulps. ‘Gosh,’ he said, ‘that’s great! Cold, too!’ Well, it wasn’t exactly cold, but it was cool, and it was clear and sweet, and Harmon gravely filled the cup many times before their thirsts were satisfied. Then they went in swimming. Harmon had brought no bathing attire, but that trifling circumstance didn’t keep him out of the water, and long after Pud and Tim had had enough and were out again on the grass, sunning themselves dry, Harmon still paddled or floated idly about, the sunlight glinting on the wet ebony of his skin. Having donned some of his clothes, Pud, invigorated by his bath, said he guessed it was time to fix up the launch. Tim wanted to know what he meant by ‘fix up’ and was requested to wait and see. Pud climbed into the launch, rummaged awhile and reappeared to view with two pieces of white oilcloth. Then he set about tacking one of them on the bow. Tim advanced to the edge of the water and watched curiously. The oblong of oilcloth, evidently cut from a piece that had seen service on Mrs. Pringle’s kitchen table, was adorned with the inscription, surprisingly well lettered in black paint, JOLLY RODGER. Several tacks and several whacks of the hammer secured the strip of oilcloth over the word _Kismet_, and, since the oilcloth was not particularly white any longer, at a distance of a few yards it appeared quite as though the new name was painted on the hull.