six o'clock in
the morning
In the summer , above all , on Monday mornings , when we had returned to the office after our Sunday holiday , he had an inexhaustible fund of stories concerning his adventures and feats of strength . After taking off his felt-hat , his coat , and his vest , and wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt , to indicate his sanguine and ardent temperament , he would thrust his hands deep in the pockets of his trousers , and , standing near me in an attitude of perpendicular solidity , begin a monologue something as follows : `` What a Sunday , my boy ! Positively no fatigue can lay me up . Think of it : yesterday was the regatta at Joinville-le-Pont ; at six o'clock in the morning the rendezvous at Bercy , at The Mariners , for the crew of the _ Marsouin _ ; the sun is up ; a glass of white wine and we jump into our rowing suits , seize an oar and give way -- one-two , one-two -- as far as Joinville ; then overboard for a swim before breakfast -- strip to swimming drawers , a jump overboard , and look out for squalls . After my bath I have the appetite of a tiger . Good ! I seize the boat by one hand and I call out , ` Charpentier , pass me a small ham . '