five
o'clock
I wrote a book which excited a certain amount of interest , and inspired some of my old school-fellows to renew acquaintance with me . By this time I had forgotten Johnson . He was part of a distant country , where the fine white dust settles thickly upon all things and persons . In England , where the expected , so to speak , comes to five o'clock tea , such surprising individuals as Johnson appear -- if they ever do appear -- as creatures of a disordered fancy or digestive apparatus . Once I told the story at the Scribblers ' Club to a couple of journalists . They winked at each other , and said politely that I spun a good yarn , for an amateur ! `` I never tell a story , '' said the elder of my critics , `` till I 've worked out a climax .