He placed each piece in a tool-hole of the anvil, bent down the iron that was to form the head, flattened the six sides and threw the finished rivet still red-hot on to the black earth, where its bright light gradually died out; and this with a continuous hammering, wielding in his right hand a hammer weighing five pounds, completing a detail at every blow, turning and working the iron with such dexterity that he was able to talk to and look at those about him.

The anvil had a silvery ring.

Without a drop of perspiration, quite at his ease, he struck in a good-natured sort of a way, not appearing to exert himself more than on the evenings when he cut out pictures at home.
"Oh! these are little rivets of twenty millimetres," said he in reply to Gervaise's questions.

"A fellow can do his three hundred a day.

But it requires practice, for one's arm soon grows weary." And when she asked him if his wrist did not feel stiff at the end of the day he laughed aloud.