It was really his father's fault.

Lots of fathers have the foolish habit of shoving their sons into their own line of work.
For another two months Coupeau hobbled about on crutches.

He had first of all managed to get as far as the street, and smoke his pipe in front of the door.

Then he had managed to reach the exterior Boulevard, dragging himself along in the sunshine, and remaining for hours on one of the seats.

Gaiety returned to him; his infernal tongue got sharper in these long hours of idleness.