midnight
Nobody in our street ever did much else of a Sunday . I suppose you do n't happen to have ever been down the Falcon Road of a Sunday morning , Parson ? No ? Well , you see , the street 's a kind of market all Saturday night , up till long after midnight -- costers ' barrows with flare-lights , gin-shops full to the door , and all the fun of the fair -- all the fun of the fair . Mothers and fathers , lads and sweethearts , babies in prams , and toddlers in blue plush and white wool ; you see them all crowding the bars up till midnight , and they see -- well , they see Battersea through a kind of a bright gaze . Then comes Sunday , and a dry throat , and waiting for the pubs to open . The streets are all a litter of dirty newspaper and cabbage-stumps , and worse ; and the air 's kind of sick and stale . '