accompany his
friend to the workshop, honoring in him the workman really worthy of the
name. But when they arrived before the "Little Civet," which was just
opening, they entered to have a plum in brandy, only one, merely to
drink together to the firm observance of a good resolution. On a
bench opposite the counter, and with his back against the wall,
Bibi-the-Smoker was sitting smoking with a sulky look on his face.

"Hallo! Here's Bibi having a snooze," said Coupeau. "Are you down in the
dumps, old bloke?"

"No, no," replied the comrade, stretching his arm. "It's the employers
who disgust me. I sent mine to the right about yesterday. They're all
toads and scoundrels."

Bibi-the-Smoker accepted a plum. He was, no doubt, waiting there on that
bench for someone to stand him a drink. Lantier, however, took the part
of the employers; they often had some very hard times, as he who had
been in business himself well knew. The workers were a bad lot, forever
getting drunk! They didn't take their work seriously. Sometimes they
quit in the middle of a job and only returned when they needed something
in their pockets. Then Lantier would switch his attack to the employers.
They were nasty exploiters, regular cannibals. But he could sleep with a
clear conscience as he had always acted as a friend to his employees. He
didn't want to get rich the way others did.

"Let's be off, my boy," he said, speaking to Coupeau. "We must be going
or we shall be late."

Bibi-the-Smoker followed them, swinging his arms. Outside the sun
was scarcely rising, the pale daylight seemed dirtied by the muddy
reflection of the pavement; it had rained the night before and it
was very mild. The gas lamps had just been turned out; the Rue des
Poissonniers, in which shreds of night rent by the houses still floated,
was gradually filling with the dull tramp of the workmen descending
towards Paris. Coupeau, with his zinc-worker's bag slung over his
shoulder, walked along in the imposing manner of a fellow who feels in
good form for a change. He turned round and asked:

"Bibi, do you want a job. The boss told me to bring a pal if I could."

"No thanks," answered Bibi-the-Smoker; "I'm purging myself. You should
ask My-Boots. He was looking for something yesterday. Wait a minute.
My-Boots is most likely in there."

And as they reached the bottom of the street they indeed caught sight of
My-Boots inside Pere Colombe's. In spite of the early hour l'Assommoi