midnight
The noise awoke Peter Measel , and when we had finished making fools of ourselves I walked over to discover what he was saying . He was praying aloud -- nasally -- through the mouse-hole -- for us , not himself . I looked at my watch . It was two hours past midnight . `` You fellows , '' I said , `` it 's Sunday . The martyred biped has just waked up and remembered it . He is praying that we may be forgiven for polluting the Sabbath stillness with immoral tunes ! ''