“I have a better gardener than you,” said Balor.
“You have not. What can your gardener do?”
“The tree that he plants on Monday morning has the finest ripe apples in the world on Saturday night.”
“That’s nothing. The tree that I plant in the morning I’ll pluck from it in the evening the finest ripe apples you have ever set eyes on.”
“I do not like to have any child near my castle,” said Balor; “but I will keep you for a time, even with the child, if your wages are not too great for me.”
“I will work a day and a year for the cow.”
Balor agreed to the terms, and took Cian. Balor spoke no word to the child, good or bad, and the boy was not thriving. One day Cian was bringing to Balor a lot of fine apples from one of his trees; he stumbled on the threshold, and the apples fell to the floor. All the people present ran to gather the apples, the child better than others. He worked so nimbly that he picked up two-thirds of all that had fallen, though a whole crowd was picking as well as himself.
“Tog leat Lui Lavada [Take away with you Little Long Hand],” cried Balor.
“Oh, he has the name now,” said Cian.
Cian worked his time out then, and said, “I will take my pay another day.”