midnight
He had come into town to `` live '' things , to transmute this yellow dust into happiness , to taste the wine of life , to know the lips of flame . It was the day of the Man with the Poke . He was King . The sheer animalism of him overflowed in midnight roysterings , in bacchanalian revels , in debauches among the human débris of the tenderloin . Every one was waiting for him , to fleece him , rob him , strip him . It was also the day of the man behind the bar , of the gambler , of the harpy . My strange , formless fears for Berna were soon set at rest .