“What! You’re going to work for that rascal Bourguignon?” yelled My-Boots, when the zinc-worker had spoken to him. “You’ll never catch me in his hutch again! No, I’d rather go till next year with my tongue hanging out of my mouth. But, old fellow, you won’t stay three days, and it’s I who tell you so.” “Really now, is it such a dirty hole?” asked Coupeau anxiously. “Oh, it’s about the dirtiest. You can’t move there. The ape’s for ever on your back. And such queer ways too—a missus who always says you’re drunk, a shop where you mustn’t spit. I sent them to the right about the first night, you know.” “Good; now I’m warned. I shan’t stop there for ever. I’ll just go this morning to see what it’s like; but if the boss bothers me, I’ll catch him up and plant him upon his missus, you know, bang together like two fillets of sole!” Then Coupeau thanked his friend for the useful information and shook his hand. As he was about to leave, My-Boots cursed angrily. Was that lousy Bourguignon going to stop them from having a drink? Weren’t they free any more? He could well wait another five minutes. Lantier came in to share in the round and they stood together at the counter. My-Boots, with his smock black with dirt and his cap flattened on his head had recently been proclaimed king of pigs and drunks after he had eaten a salad of live beetles and chewed a piece of a dead cat. “Say there, old Borgia,” he called to Pere Colombe, “give us some of your yellow stuff, first class mule’s wine.” And when Pere Colombe, pale and quiet in his blue-knitted waistcoat, had filled the four glasses, these gentlemen tossed them off, so as not to let the liquor get flat. “That does some good when it goes down,” murmured Bibi-the-Smoker. The comic My-Boots had a story to tell. He was so drunk on the Friday that his comrades had stuck his pipe in his mouth with a handful of plaster. Anyone else would have died of it; he merely strutted about and puffed out his chest. “Do you gentlemen require anything more?” asked Pere Colombe in his oily voice. “Yes, fill us up again,” said Lantier. “It’s my turn.” Now they were talking of women. Bibi-the-Smoker had taken his girl to an aunt’s at Montrouge on the previous Sunday. Coupeau asked for the news of the “Indian Mail,” a washerwoman of Chaillot who was known in the establishment. They were about to drink, when My-Boots loudly called to Goujet and Lorilleux who were passing by. They came just to the door, but would not enter. The blacksmith did not care to take anything. The chainmaker, pale and shivering, held in his pocket the gold chains he was going to deliver; and he coughed and asked them to excuse him, saying that the least drop of brandy would nearly make him split his sides. “There are hypocrites for you!” grunted My-Boots. “I bet they have their drinks on the sly.” And when he had poked his nose in his glass he attacked Pere Colombe.