At length the talk slackened and all faced the top step, where Napoleon Laliberte was making ready, in accord with his weekly custom, to announce the parish news.  He stood there motionless for a little while, awaiting quiet,—­hands deep in the pockets of the heavy lynx coat, knitting his forehead and half closing his keen eyes under the fur cap pulled well over his ears; and when silence fell he began to give the news at the full pitch of his voice, in the manner of a carter who encourages his horses on a hill.

“The work on the wharf will go forward at once ...  I have been sent money by the Government, and those looking for a job should see me before vespers.  If you want this money to stay in the parish instead of being sent back to Quebec you had better lose no time in speaking to me.”

Some moved over in his direction; others, indifferent, met his announcement with a laugh.  The remark was heard in an envious undertone:—­“And who will be foreman at three dollars a day?  Perhaps good old Laliberte ...”

But it was said jestingly rather than in malice, and the speaker ended by adding his own laugh.

Hands still in the pockets of his big coat, straightening himself and squaring his shoulders as he stood there upon the highest step, Napoleon Laliberte proceeded in loudest tones:—­“A surveyor from Roberval will be in the parish next week.  If anyone wishes his land surveyed before mending his fences for the summer, this is to let him know.”

The item was received without interest.  Peribonka farmers are not particular about correcting their boundaries to gain or lose a few square feet, since the most enterprising among them have still two-thirds of their grants to clear,—­endless acres of woodland and swamp to reclaim.

He continued:—­“Two men are up here with money to buy furs.  If you have any bear, mink, muskrat or fox you will find these men at the store until Wednesday, or you can apply to Francois Paradis of Mistassini who is with them.  They have plenty of money and will pay cash for first-class pelts.”  His news finished, he descended the steps.  A sharp-faced little fellow took his place.

“Who wants to buy a fine young pig of my breeding?” he asked, indicating with his finger something shapeless that struggled in a bag at his feet.  A great burst of laughter greeted him.  They knew them well, these pigs of Hormidas’ raising.  No bigger than rats, and quick as squirrels to jump the fences.

“Twenty-five cents!” one young man bid chaffingly.

“Fifty cents!”

“A dollar!”

“Don’t play the fool, Jean.  Your wife will never let you pay a dollar for such a pig as that.”

Jean stood his ground:—­“A dollar, I won’t go back on it.”

Hormidas Berube with a disgusted look on his face awaited another bid, but only got jokes and laughter.