eight o'clock
Sometimes they stopped -- their trousers legs flapping behind them -- and trumpeted loudly into red silk handkerchiefs . Young Gourlay had fled the streets . It was the kind of night that made him cower . By eight o'clock , however , he was merry with the barley-bree , and making a butt of himself to amuse the company . He was not quick-witted enough to banter a comrade readily , nor hardy enough to essay it unprovoked ; on the other hand , his swaggering love of notice impelled him to some form of talk that would attract attention . So he made a point of always coming with daft stories of things comic that befell him -- at least , he said they did . But if his efforts were greeted with too loud a roar , implying not only appreciation of the stories , but also a contempt for the man who could tell them of himself , his sensitive vanity was immediately wounded , and he swelled with sulky anger .