ten o'clock
Jack was silent . `` I 'll go by the cave fus ' an ' jus ' look where little Jack is sleepin ' . Po ' little feller , he must ha ' been mighty lonesome last night . '' It was ten o'clock and the Bishop was on his way to church . He was driving the old roan of the night before . A parody on a horse , to one who did not look closely , but to one who knows and who looks beyond the mere external form for that hidden something in both man and horse which bespeaks strength and reserve force , there was seen through the blindness and the ugliness and the sleepy , ambling , shuffling gait a clean-cut form , with deep chest and closely ribbed ; with well drawn flanks , a fine , flat steel-turned bone , and a powerful muscle , above hock and forearms , that clung to the leg as the Bishop said , `` like bees a ` swarmin ' . '' At his little cottage gate stood Bud Billings , the best slubber in the cotton mill .