Two friends in need of money sold a pelt belonging to a bear still living—but, they told the furrier, they’d kill him soon.
“A veritable king of bears,” they cried. “His fur will stop the chillest wind. You’ll get two coats at least from him, and each will be your fortune.”
Lavishly they praised their bear (‘their’ bear) and guaranteed delivery tomorrow—or the afterday at latest. The price agreed upon, they set out on their quest.
They found the bear. He charged at them.
The friends were thunderstricken. All their plans evaporated: there’s no haggling with a charging bear.
One friend climbed up a tree. The other threw himself face-first upon the ground and, rigid as a statue, held his breath—for somewhere he had heard that bears will not attack a corpse.
The bear, no sage, was fooled. He turned the lifeless body over, turned it back, and, with both nostrils, snuffled.
“Yuck!” he gagged. “It stinks like a cadaver three days old! I’ll none of it.” And so he went his way.
Descending from the tree, the first friend crouched beside the second, marveling at their good luck.
“But what about the skin?” he asked. “He whispered something in your ear, I noticed.”
His companion groaned. “He said: Don’t sell the bearskin till the bear is dead.”