five in the
morning
The lion of Pavilionstone is its Great Hotel . A dozen years ago , going over to Paris by South-Eastern Tidal Steamer , you used to be dropped upon the platform of the main line Pavilionstone Station -LRB- not a junction then -RRB- , at eleven o'clock on a dark winter 's night , in a roaring wind ; and in the howling wilderness outside the station , was a short omnibus which brought you up by the forehead the instant you got in at the door ; and nobody cared about you , and you were alone in the world . You bumped over infinite chalk , until you were turned out at a strange building which had just left off being a barn without having quite begun to be a house , where nobody expected your coming , or knew what to do with you when you were come , and where you were usually blown about , until you happened to be blown against the cold beef , and finally into bed . At five in the morning you were blown out of bed , and after a dreary breakfast , with crumpled company , in the midst of confusion , were hustled on board a steamboat and lay wretched on deck until you saw France lunging and surging at you with great vehemence over the bowsprit . Now , you come down to Pavilionstone in a free and easy manner , an irresponsible agent , made over in trust to the South-Eastern Company , until you get out of the railway-carriage at high-water mark . If you are crossing by the boat at once , you have nothing to do but walk on board and be happy there if you can -- I ca n't . If you are going to our Great Pavilionstone Hotel , the sprightliest porters under the sun , whose cheerful looks are a pleasant welcome , shoulder your luggage , drive it off in vans , bowl it away in trucks , and enjoy themselves in playing athletic games with it .