ten o'clock
He learned to look forward to the place ; for , once there , he was sure of a good night 's rest , and Indian hot weather can be rather trying . First , shadowy under closing eyelids , would come the outline of the brushwood-pile ; next the white sand of the beach-road , almost overhanging the black , changeful sea ; then the turn inland and uphill to the single light . When he was unrestful for any reason , he would tell himself how he was sure to get there -- sure to get there -- if he shut his eyes and surrendered to the drift of things . But one night after a foolishly hard hour 's polo -LRB- the thermometer was 94 ° in his quarters at ten o'clock -RRB- , sleep stood away from him altogether , though he did his best to find the well-known road , the point where true sleep began . At last he saw the brushwood-pile , and hurried along to the ridge , for behind him he felt was the wide-awake , sultry world . He reached the lamp in safety , tingling with drowsiness , when a policeman -- a common country policeman -- sprang up before him and touched him on the shoulder ere he could dive into the dim valley below . He was filled with terror , -- the hopeless terror of dreams , -- for the policeman said , in the awful , distinct voice of dream-people , `` I am Policeman Day coming back from the City of Sleep .