“Esa,” he replied, “what will I do with a dirty dog-skin?”
The wolf took it up; it was a beautiful robe.
“Oh! I will carry it now,” said Manabozho.
“Oh no,” replied the wolf, who at the moment exerted his magic power. “It is a robe of pearls.”
From that moment he lost no opportunity of displaying his superiority, both in the hunter’s and magician’s art, over his conceited companion.
Coming to a place where the moose had lain down, they saw that the young wolves had made a fresh start after their prey.
“Why,” said the wolf, “this moose is poor. I know by the tracks, for I can always tell whether they are fat or not.”
They next came to a place where one of the wolves had tried to bite the moose, and, failing, had broken one of his teeth on a tree.
“Manabozho,” said the wolf, “one of your grandchildren has shot at the game. Take his arrow. There it is.”
“No,” replied he, “what will I do with a dirty tooth?”