As the roof was almost flat, he had set up his bench on it, a wide shutter supported on two trestles.

A beautiful May sun was setting, giving a golden hue to the chimney-pots.

And, right up at the top, against the clear sky, the workman was quietly cutting up his zinc with a big pair of shears, leaning over the bench, and looking like a tailor in his shop cutting out a pair of trousers.

Close to the wall of the next house, his boy, a youngster of seventeen, thin and fair, was keeping the fire of the chafing dish blazing by the aid of an enormous pair of bellows, each puff of which raised a cloud of sparks.
"Hi! Zidore, put in the irons!" cried Coupeau.
The boy stuck the soldering irons into the midst of the charcoal, which looked a pale rose color in the daylight.

Then he resumed blowing.
Coupeau held the last sheet of zinc.