"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.