"How, my friend!" said the voice again, this time close at his
side. Iktomi turned and there stood a dripping muskrat who had
just come out of the lake.

"Oh, it is my friend who startled me. I wondered if among the
wild rice some spirit voice was talking. How, how, my friend!"
said Iktomi. The muskrat stood smiling. On his lips hung a ready
"Yes, my friend," when Iktomi would ask, "My friend, will you sit
down beside me and share my food?"

That was the custom of the plains people. Yet Iktomi sat
silent. He hummed an old dance-song and beat gently on the edge of
the pot with his buffalo-horn spoon. The muskrat began to feel
awkward before such lack of hospitality and wished himself under
water.

After many heart throbs Iktomi stopped drumming with his horn
ladle, and looking upward into the muskrat's face, he said:

"My friend, let us run a race to see who shall win this pot of
fish. If I win, I shall not need to share it with you. If you
win, you shall have half of it." Springing to his feet, Iktomi
began at once to tighten the belt about his waist.

"My friend Ikto, I cannot run a race with you! I am not a
swift runner, and you are nimble as a deer. We shall not run any
race together," answered the hungry muskrat.

For a moment Iktomi stood with a hand on his long protruding
chin. His eyes were fixed upon something in the air. The muskrat