about two o'clock in the afternoon
`` Itchabod , '' the tramp was saying in the voice of one who reasons on the side of the inevitable . `` It 's Fair Itchabod , O ' Man . There 's no going back to it . '' It was about two o'clock in the afternoon one hot day in high May when Mr. Polly , unhurrying and serene , came to that broad bend of the river to which the little lawn and garden of the Potwell Inn run down . He stopped at the sight of the place with its deep tiled roof , nestling under big trees -- you never get a decently big , decently shaped tree by the seaside -- its sign towards the roadway , its sun-blistered green bench and tables , its shapely white windows and its row of upshooting hollyhock plants in the garden . A hedge separated it from a buttercup-yellow meadow , and beyond stood three poplars in a group against the sky , three exceptionally tall , graceful and harmonious poplars . It is hard to say what there was about them that made them so beautiful to Mr. Polly ; but they seemed to him to touch a pleasant scene to a distinction almost divine .