eight o'clock
And then there was a little river , crooked as a pot-hook , that crawled through the middle of the town , crossed by a hundred little bridges so nearly alike that they got on Curly 's nerves . And the last bartender wore a number nine shoe . The saloon stood on a corner . The hour was eight o'clock . Homefarers and outgoers jostled Curly on the narrow stone sidewalk . Between the buildings to his left he looked down a cleft that proclaimed itself another thoroughfare . The alley was dark except for one patch of light .