three o'clock
Near the books there always stood a decanter of vodka , and a salted cucumber or a pickled apple lay beside it , not on a plate , but on the baize table-cloth . Every half-hour he would pour himself out a glass of vodka and drink it without taking his eyes off the book . Then without looking at it he would feel for the cucumber and bite off a bit . At three o'clock he would go cautiously to the kitchen door ; cough , and say , `` Daryushka , what about dinner ? . . '' After his dinner -- a rather poor and untidily served one -- Andrey Yefimitch would walk up and down his rooms with his arms folded , thinking .