one o’clock
What should bring Paul from the inky apron , and the dusty type-cases , and the battered old founts of metal , and the worm-eaten old founts of wood , and the slattern bankrupt office into the society of such a man as this ? The Exile dreamed his dream , and a year was gone in a breath . The Armstrong household was asleep . It was one o'clock -- noon of the slumberous hours . Paul slipped downstairs in his stocking-feet , struck a match , lit the kitchen gas , and drew on his boots . Then back came the creaking bolts of the door which led to the garden . Out went the gas , and Paul , matchbox in hand , sped stealthily to the office , the summer dews falling and the weeds smelling sweet .