midnight
He was an oldish and wicked man , born on the Bowery . He had been a heavy-weight prize-fighter in the days of John L. Sullivan ; then he had met John , and been , ever since , an honest crook who made an excellent living by conducting a boxing-school in which the real work was done by assistants . He resembled a hound with a neat black bow tie , and he drooled tobacco-juice down his big , raw-looking , moist , bristly , too-masculine chin . Every evening from eleven to midnight Petey McGuff sat at the round table in the mildewed corner at the end of the bar , drinking old-fashioned whisky cocktails made with Bourbon , playing Canfield , staring at the nude models pasted on the milky surface of an old mirror , and teasing Carl . `` Here , boy , come ` ere an ' wipe off de whisky you spilled ... . Come on , you tissy-cat . Get on de job ... .