about twelve o'clock
And from all this throng , this single unit , this living , breathing organism -- the People -- there rose a droning , terrible note . It was not yet the wild , fierce clamour of riot and insurrection , shrill , high pitched ; but it was a beginning , the growl of the awakened brute , feeling the iron in its flank , heaving up its head with bared teeth , the throat vibrating to the long , indrawn snarl of wrath . Thus the forenoon passed , while the people , their bulk growing hourly vaster , kept to the streets , moving slowly backward and forward , oscillating in the grooves of the thoroughfares , the steady , low-pitched growl rising continually into the hot , still air . Then , at length , about twelve o'clock , the movement of the throng assumed definite direction . It set towards the Opera House . Presley , who had left his pony at the City livery stable , found himself caught in the current and carried slowly forward in its direction . His arms were pinioned to his sides by the press , the crush against his body was all but rib-cracking , he could hardly draw his breath .