Thus, towards the beginning of November, Coupeau went in for a booze which ended in a most dirty manner, both for himself and the others. The day before he had been offered a job. This time Lantier was full of fine sentiments; he lauded work, because work ennobles a man. In the morning he even rose before it was light, for he gravely wished to 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’Assommoir was flaring, the shutters down, the gas lighted. Lantier stood at the door, telling Coupeau to make haste, because they had only ten minutes left.