noon
Did the time seem over-long , the way unendurably lonely and toilsome ? He had only to close his eyes to remember -- to remember . And so the years had passed . * * * * * It was the noon spell on a day in late October , and Constans sat on the river end of the long wooden pier at the tanyard eating his luncheon of bread and bacon scraps . The tide was running up slowly , as could be noted from the bubbles and drift-wood that circled past the piling of the wharf , and Constans , happening to glance down into the swirl , saw something that brought him to his feet . Nothing more remarkable than a bottle of thick , greenish glass , but bottles of any kind had become valuable now that the art of glass blowing was so little practised , and such flotsam was not to be despised . Having strung a length of noosed cord to a light pole , Constans threw himself flat along the string-piece of the pier and began angling for the prize .