eight o'clock
It was a December night in London , and the Southern lad had nothing to shelter his little body from the Northern cold but his short velveteen jacket , red waistcoat , and knickerbockers . He was going home after a long day in Chelsea , and , conscious of something fantastic in his appearance , and of doubtful legality in his calling , he was dipping into side streets in order to escape the laughter of the London boys and the attentions of policemen . Coming to the Italian quarter in Soho , he stopped at the door of a shop to see the time . It was eight o'clock . There was an hour to wait before he would be allowed to go indoors . The shop was a baker 's , and the window was full of cakes and confectionery . From an iron grid on the pavement there came the warm breath of the oven underground , the red glow of the fire , and the scythe-like swish of the long shovels .