“What is that?” asked the brothers.
“That you will give us all the hair.”
“Oh, yes,” said the brothers; “we will be glad to get rid of it.”
“All right,” said they; “where are the skins?” Then they all began to pour out of the place, and they were so numerous that it was like water, when the rain is falling hard, running over a rock.
When they had all run out the two War-gods drew the skins on the bank, and the Field-mice went to nibbling the hair and cleaning off the underside. They made up little bundles of the flesh from the skins for their food, and great parcels of the hair. Finally they said: “May we have them all?”
“No,” said the brothers, “we must have eight reserved, four for each, so that we will be hard at work all day tomorrow.”
“Well,” said the Mice, “we can’t consent to leaving even so many, unless you promise that you will gather up all the hair and put it somewhere so that we can get it.”
The Two promised that, and said: “Be sure to leave eight skins, will you? and we will go to bed and rest ourselves.”
“All right, all right!” responded the Field-mice.
So the brothers climbed up the hill to the town, and up the ladder, and slept in their room.