seven o'clock
And neither did I feel that the room was full of dead laughter , for our living voices seemed to be ringing in it still . After tea I read again my only love-letter , revelling in the dear delightful errors in spelling which made it Martin 's and nobody else 's , and then I observed for the first time what was said about `` the boys of Blackwater , '' and their intention of `` getting up a spree . '' This suggested that perhaps Martin had not yet left the island but was remaining for the evening steamer , in order to be present at some sort of celebrations to be given in his honour . So at seven o'clock -- it was dark by that time -- I was down at the Quay , sitting in our covered automobile , which had been drawn up in a sheltered and hidden part of the pier , almost opposite the outgoing steamer . Shall I ever forget the scene that followed ? First , came a band of music playing one of our native songs , which was about a lamb that had been lost in the snow , and how the Big Man of the Farm went out in search of it , and found it and brought it home in his arms . Then came a double row of young men carrying flags and banners -- fine , clean-limbed lads such as make a woman 's heart leap to look at them .