nine o’clock
He wanted to get back to Wyoming where he could go trout-fishing on Sundays . He used to say ` there was nothing in life for him but trout streams , ever since he 'd lost his twins . ' These were the distractions I had to choose from . There were no other lights burning downtown after nine o'clock . On starlight nights I used to pace up and down those long , cold streets , scowling at the little , sleeping houses on either side , with their storm-windows and covered back porches . They were flimsy shelters , most of them poorly built of light wood , with spindle porch-posts horribly mutilated by the turning-lathe . Yet for all their frailness , how much jealousy and envy and unhappiness some of them managed to contain !