seven o'clock
Not a ghost , not a remembered fragrance nor accent , rose from the delicate paper . They had been the property of a man dead twelve years ago , slain by incomprehensible mischance ; and the man in the contracted cabin , vibrating from the elemental and violent forces without , forebore to open them . He burned the packet to a blackish ash on a plate . It was , he saw from the chronometer , seven o'clock ; and he rose charged with tense energy , engaged in activities of a far different order . He unwrapped from many folds of oiled silk a flat , amorphous pistol , uglier in its bleak outline than the familiar weapons of more graceful days ; and , sliding into place a filled cartridge clip , he threw a load into the barrel . This he deposited in the pocket of a black wool jacket , closely buttoned about his long , hard body , and went up on deck . Halvard , in a glistening yellow coat , came close up to him , speaking with the wind whipping the words from his lips .