Just as Hawt was sitting down at the appointed side, daylight came. Tsaroki played two nights and two days. Hawt lay in his place and listened.
“My grandson,” said Waida Dikit to Tsaroki, “I should like to hear you both play. You must give that flute to Hawt some of the time.”
Tsaroki gave the flute to his brother, and from time to time they passed it from one to the other. Both played; both made beautiful music. They played day after day, night after night, ten days and ten nights.
“You play well now, both of you, my grandsons. Would you not like to hear other persons play?”
“Oh, we should like that very much; we should like to hear other persons play,” said Tsaroki and Hawt.
“I used to hear a friend of mine long ago,” said Waida Dikit, “and he played very well. Would you like to have him play with you?”
“Yes, yes; maybe he would teach us to play better.”
“My friend is very old now,” said Waida Dikit: “he is Kanhlalas Kiemila.”
“I will go and bring him,” said Tsaroki.
“Go, my grandson. I will show you a trail, but do not go near the east side of my sweat-house. It is not far. Kanhlalas lives northeast from here.”