appearing to exert himself more than on the evenings when he
cut out pictures at home.

"Oh! these are little rivets of twenty millimetres," said he in reply to
Gervaise's questions. "A fellow can do his three hundred a day. But it
requires practice, for one's arm soon grows weary."

And when she asked him if his wrist did not feel stiff at the end of the
day he laughed aloud. Did she think him a young lady? His wrist had had
plenty of drudgery for fifteen years past; it was now as strong as
the iron implements it had been so long in contact with. She was right
though; a gentleman who had never forged a rivet or a bolt, and who
would try to show off with his five pound hammer, would find himself
precious stiff in the course of a couple of hours. It did not seem much,
but a few years of it often did for some very strong fellows. During
this conversation the other workmen were also hammering away all
together. Their tall shadows danced about in the light, the red flashes
of the iron that the fire traversed, the gloomy recesses, clouds of
sparks darted out from beneath the hammers and shone like suns on a
level with the anvils. And Gervaise, feeling happy and interested in the
movement round the forge, did not think of leaving. She was going a long
way round to get nearer to Etienne without having her hands burnt, when
she saw the dirty and bearded workman, whom she had spoken to outside,
enter.

"So you've found him, madame?" asked he in his drunken bantering way.
"You know, Golden-Mug, it's I who told madame where to find you."

He was called Salted-Mouth, otherwise Drink-without-Thirst, the brick of
bricks, a dab hand at bolt forging, who wetted his iron every day with
a pint and a half of brandy. He had gone out to have a drop, because
he felt he wanted greasing to make him last till six o'clock. When he
learnt that Little Zouzou's real name was Etienne, he thought it very
funny; and he showed his black teeth as he laughed. Then he recognized
Gervaise. Only the day before he had had a glass of wine with
Coupeau. You could speak to Coupeau about Salted-Mouth, otherwise
Drink-without-Thirst; he would at once say: "He's a jolly dog!" Ah! that
joker Coupeau! He was one of the right sort; he stood treat oftener than
his turn.

"I'm awfully glad to know you're his missus," added he.

"He deserves to have a pretty wife. Eh, Golden-Mug, madame is a fine
woman, isn't she?"

He was becoming quite gallant, sidling up towa