Eight o'clock
The old crack-faced clock , with one hand , that Miss Husted had put on the mantelpiece , struck the hour with its old cracked bell , and it startled him . He had heard it hundreds of times , but now its weird , metallic tone jarred on the harmony of his feelings . He counted the strokes ; five , six , seven , eight . Eight o'clock ! He started up , for his dream had come to an end , and he came back to earth again , back into the world of Houston Street , back to the Bowery , to Costello , to the Museum , to his nightly labour for his daily bread . Mechanically he changed his velvet jacket for his street dress , and hastily put on his cape coat and hat . `` No , it 's not a dream ! ''