Arches and poles were being put up, to be decorated against the
feast-day, and piles of wood for bonfires were arranged at points on the
hills round the village. Cheer and goodwill were everywhere, for a fine
harvest was in view, and this feast-day always brought gladness and
simple revelling. Parish interchanged with parish; but, because it was so
remote, Pontiac was its own goal of pleasure, and few fared forth, though
others came from Ville Bambord and elsewhere to join the fete. As Lagroin
and the dwarf came to the door of the smithy, they heard the loud laugh
of Lajeunesse.
"Good!" said Parpon. "Hear how he tears his throat!"
"If he has sense, I'll make a captain of him," remarked Lagroin
consequentially.
"You shall beat him into a captain on his own anvil," rejoined the little
man.
They entered the shop. Lajeunesse was leaning on his bellows, laughing,
and holding an iron in the spitting fire; Muroc was seated on the edge of
the cooling tub; and Duclosse was resting on a bag of his excellent meal.
Garotte was the only missing member of the quartette.
Muroc was a wag, a grim sort of fellow, black from his trade, with big
rollicking eyes.
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