eleven o’clock
Is there any cold punch in the bowl ? Thank you , O'Malley , that will do , -- merely to touch my lips . Well , well , it 's all past and gone now ; but I was very fond of Polly Hackett , and she was of me . We used to take our little evening walks together through the coffee plantation : very romantic little strolls they were , she in white muslin with a blue sash and blue shoes ; I in a flannel jacket and trousers , straw hat and cravat , a Virginia cigar as long as a walking-stick in my mouth , puffing and courting between times ; then we 'd take a turn to the refining-house , look in at the big boilers , quiz the niggers , and come back to Twangberry Moss to supper , where old Hackett , the father , sported a glorious table at eleven o'clock . Great feeding it was ; you were always sure of a preserved monkey , a baked land-crab , or some such delicacy . And such Madeira ; it makes me dry to think of it . `` Talk of West India slavery , indeed .