three
o'clock
So passed Sunday , and Monday morning he was hard at work , sorting clothes , while Joe , a towel bound tightly around his head , with groans and blasphemies , was running the washer and mixing soft-soap . `` I simply ca n't help it , '' he explained . `` I got to drink when Saturday night comes around . '' Another week passed , a great battle that continued under the electric lights each night and that culminated on Saturday afternoon at three o'clock , when Joe tasted his moment of wilted triumph and then drifted down to the village to forget . Martin 's Sunday was the same as before . He slept in the shade of the trees , toiled aimlessly through the newspaper , and spent long hours lying on his back , doing nothing , thinking nothing . He was too dazed to think , though he was aware that he did not like himself .