Turning his back to the fire, the carman stood upright. He was an old man, dressed in knitted violet wool with a rabbit-skin cap on his head; while his horse, a great yellow horse, waited with the immobility of stone while they emptied the six trains he drew. The workman employed at the tipping-cradle, a red-haired lean fellow, did not hurry himself; he pressed on the lever with a sleepy hand. And above, the wind grew stronger--an icy north wind--and its great, regular breaths passed by like the strokes of a scythe. "Good day," replied the old man. There was silence. The man, who felt that he was being looked at suspiciously, at once told his name. "I am called Étienne Lantier. I am an engine-man. Any work here?" The flames lit him up. He might be about twenty-one years of age, a very dark, handsome man, who looked strong in spite of his thin limbs. The carman, thus reassured, shook his head. "Work for an engine-man? No, no! There were two came yesterday. There's nothing." A gust cut short their speech. Then Étienne asked, pointing to the sombre pile of buildings at the foot of the platform: "A pit, isn't it?" The old man this time could not reply: he was strangled by a violent cough. At last he expectorated, and his expectoration left a black patch on the purple soil. "Yes, a pit. The Voreux. There! The settlement is quite near." In his turn, and with extended arm, he pointed out in the night the village of which the young man had vaguely seen the roofs. But the six trams were empty, and he followed them without cracking his whip, his legs stiffened by rheumatism; while the great yellow horse went on of itself, pulling heavily between the rails beneath a new gust which bristled its coat.