two in the morning
From time to time he gazed out through the open window , off toward the whispering lines of surf on the eastern shores of Staten Island -- the surf forever talking , forever striving to give its mystic message to the unheeding ear of man . And as he gazed , his blue eyes narrowed with the intensity of his thought . Once , as though some sudden understanding had come to him , he smote the pine table with a corded fist , and swore below his breath . It was past two in the morning when he finally rose , stretched , yawned and made ready for sleep on his hard iron bunk . `` Can it be ? '' he muttered , as he undressed . `` Can it be possible , or am I dreaming ?