“Open the crock!” said Wind-Rush, shaking him.  “How shall a poor little child be able to open such a crock?  Why, it’s quite as large as I am myself.”  “Open it!” commanded Wind-Rush once more, “or it will be a sorry thing for you.”  The boy got up, tottered over to the crock, fumbled the clasp, and let his arms fall.  “I’m not usually so weak,” said he.  “If you will only let me sleep until morning, I think that I’ll be able to manage with that clasp.”

But Wind-Rush was impatient, and he rushed forward and pinched the boy in the leg.  That sort of treatment the boy didn’t care to suffer from a crow.  He jerked himself loose quickly, ran a couple of paces backward, drew his knife from the sheath, and held it extended in front of him.  “You’d better be careful!” he cried to Wind-Rush.

This one too was so enraged that he didn’t dodge the danger.  He rushed at the boy, just as though he’d been blind, and ran so straight against the knife, that it entered through his eye into the head.  The boy drew the knife back quickly, but Wind-Rush only struck out with his wings, then he fell down—­dead.

“Wind-Rush is dead!  The stranger has killed our chieftain, Wind-Rush!” cried the nearest crows, and then there was a terrible uproar.  Some wailed, others cried for vengeance.  They all ran or fluttered up to the boy, with Fumle-Drumle in the lead.  But he acted badly as usual.  He only fluttered and spread his wings over the boy, and prevented the others from coming forward and running their bills into him.

The boy thought that things looked very bad for him now.  He couldn’t run away from the crows, and there was no place where he could hide.  Then he happened to think of the earthen crock.  He took a firm hold on the clasp, and pulled it off.  Then he hopped into the crock to hide in it.  But the crock was a poor hiding place, for it was nearly filled to the brim with little, thin silver coins.  The boy couldn’t get far enough down, so he stooped and began to throw out the coins.

Until now the crows had fluttered around him in a thick swarm and pecked at him, but when he threw out the coins they immediately forgot their thirst for vengeance, and hurried to gather the money.  The boy threw out handfuls of it, and all the crows—­yes, even Wind-Air herself—­picked them up.  And everyone who succeeded in picking up a coin ran off to the nest with the utmost speed to conceal it.

When the boy had thrown out all the silver pennies from the crock he glanced up.  Not more than a single crow was left in the sandpit.  That was Fumle-Drumle, with the white feather in his wing; he who had carried Thumbietot.  “You have rendered me a greater service than you understand,” said the crow—­with a very different voice, and a different intonation than the one he had used heretofore—­“and I want to save your life.  Sit down on my back, and I’ll take you to a hiding place where you can be secure for to-night.  To-morrow, I’ll arrange it so that you will get back to the wild geese.”