“Oh, he will not come,” said many people. “What kind of a person is Waida Werris? He is nobody. What do we want of him?”
Waida Werris was sitting there all the time listening. Waida Dikit knew well what kind of person he was, but said nothing. That night after all invited people had come, Waida Dikit said:
“Listen, all you people here present. I have called this gathering to find who is the best flute-player, who can make the best music in this world. Let us begin. Let each play alone.”
Tsaroki began the trial. “I will begin,” said he to his brother Hawt, “then let the others play. You can play when you like.”
“I am satisfied,” said Hawt. “I will play last.”
“That is well,” answered Tsaroki. “I will play first, all will follow, and you may play last.”
Tsaroki began. He played a little while, not long; played well. Kanhlalas played next. All liked his music. Watwut Kiemila played third; played splendidly.
“Go ahead and play, all you people,” said Waida Dikit.
Tsileu Herit played best up to his time, played till almost morning, till just before daylight. The inside of the sweat-house had become red, and some asked,—
“Why is it red everywhere inside the sweat-house?”