After Easter, Cozonac began to clear the pools of osiers which the priest wove into baskets. The longer the work continued, the better was it done; the last basket was always the best.
Marcu Flori Cucu was a sensible man. He liked to stay and talk to the priest. Cozonac cleared the osiers, the priest plaited them, while Marcu lay upon his stomach with his head in his hands and idly watched.
“This osier is a little too long,” said the priest, measuring the osier with his eye. “Here, Marcu! Give me the hatchet to make it shorter.”
The hatchet was at Marcu’s feet. Marcu raised the upper part of his body, supported himself on his elbows, stretched out his legs, and began feeling about for the hatchet, trying to draw it up by his feet.
“Make haste!” said the priest, and gave him a cut with the osier.
Marcu jumped up and assured the priest that he was much more nimble than he thought. In the end, this assurance was of great use to him. By Whitsuntide the priest had a cart-load of baskets ready to take to the market, and Marcu knew very well that if the priest sold the baskets he would have a cheerful holiday.
The priest had had help for some weeks, and the help had always brought a reward to the man who had given it.
Just before Whitsuntide the rain began, and seemed as though it would never cease.
“I do not know what I shall do,” said the priest. “It seems as though I must leave the market until after Whitsuntide. I do not like going in the rain. If it does not stop raining by Thursday, I just shall not go.”
Marcu scratched himself behind his ears and said nothing. He could see that it did not suit the priest to get soaked.