“Now, boys,” said Uncle Ed, “form in line there, and we will go through a fire drill.”
He arranged us about five feet apart in a line extending from the filter to the river. We had six pails, and these Dutchy filled one at a time, passing them up the line to Reddy, who emptied them into the upper barrel and then threw them back to Dutchy to be refilled. Working in this way it did not take long to fill up the filter, and the burden of keeping the barrels full, instead of falling on one person, was shared alike by all.
[Illustration: Fig. 69. The Barrel Filter.]
[Illustration: Fig. 70. Filling the Barrel.]
Our camp outfit was further augmented by a dinner call. We discovered the necessity of such a call on our very first day of camping. Dutchy was so excited by his discoveries of the morning that he started out alone in the afternoon to make a further search. The rest of us were lazy after the noon meal, and were lolling around taking it easy during the heat of the day, and discussing plans for the future. But Dutchy’s energetic nature would not permit him to keep quiet. He took the scow and waded with it against the strong current to the deeper and quieter water above the island. Then he rowed a long way up stream. He was gone all the afternoon. Supper time came and still he didn’t appear. The sun was high, and I presume he didn’t realize how late it was getting. Finally, just at sunset, he came drifting down with the current, tired and hungry, and ready for a large meal. But we had finished our supper an hour before, and poor Dutchy had to be content with a few cold remnants, because the cook had declared he wouldn’t prepare an extra meal for a fellow who didn’t have sense enough to know when it was meal time.
Then it was that Uncle Ed bethought himself of the klepalo.
“You ought to have some sort of a dinner call,” he declared, “so that anyone within a mile of camp will know when dinner is ready.”
“Did you ever hear of a klepalo? No? Well, I was down in Macedonia a couple of years ago inspecting a railroad, and I stopped off for the night at a small Bulgarian village. The next day happened to be a Prasdnik, or saint’s day, and the first thing in the morning I was awakened by a peculiar clacking sound which I couldn’t make out. Calling my interpreter I found out from him that it