eight in the
morning
It was a kind of nightmare morning to look back upon , relieved only by the figure of my old Bohemian , with his pea jacket , his black thorn , his puffy , crinkly face , and his camelia . To make a long story short , then , the funeral came off as arranged , General Wainwright , Whitehall , and I being the sole mourners . The captain had never seen poor Fred in the flesh , but he `` liked to be in at the finish , sir , '' and so he gave me his company . It was at eight in the morning , and it was ten before we found ourselves at Oakley Villa . A burly man with bushy whiskers was waiting for us at the door . `` Are you Dr. Munro , sir ? '' he asked .