golden hue to the chimney-pots. And, right up at the top, against the
clear sky, the workman was quietly cutting up his zinc with a big pair
of shears, leaning over the bench, and looking like a tailor in his shop
cutting out a pair of trousers. Close to the wall of the next house, his
boy, a youngster of seventeen, thin and fair, was keeping the fire of
the chafing dish blazing by the aid of an enormous pair of bellows, each
puff of which raised a cloud of sparks.

"Hi! Zidore, put in the irons!" cried Coupeau.

The boy stuck the soldering irons into the midst of the charcoal, which
looked a pale rose color in the daylight. Then he resumed blowing.
Coupeau held the last sheet of zinc. It had to be placed at the edge of
the roof, close to the gutter-pipe; there was an abrupt slant there, and
the gaping void of the street opened beneath. The zinc-worker, just as
though in his own home, wearing his list-shoes, advanced, dragging his
feet, and whistling the air, "Oh! the little lambs." Arrived in front of
the opening, he let himself down, and then, supporting himself with one
knee against the masonry of a chimney-stack, remained half-way out over
the pavement below. One of his legs dangled. When he leant back to call
that young viper, Zidore, he held on to a corner of the masonry, on
account of the street beneath him.

"You confounded dawdler! Give me the irons! It's no use looking up
in the air, you skinny beggar! The larks won't tumble into your mouth
already cooked!"

But Zidore did not hurry himself. He was interested in the neighboring
roofs, and in a cloud of smoke which rose from the other side of Paris,
close to Grenelle; it was very likely a fire. However, he came and laid