eight o'clock
Mr. Pumblechook wore corduroys , and so did his shopman ; and somehow , there was a general air and flavor about the corduroys , so much in the nature of seeds , and a general air and flavor about the seeds , so much in the nature of corduroys , that I hardly knew which was which . The same opportunity served me for noticing that Mr. Pumblechook appeared to conduct his business by looking across the street at the saddler , who appeared to transact his business by keeping his eye on the coachmaker , who appeared to get on in life by putting his hands in his pockets and contemplating the baker , who in his turn folded his arms and stared at the grocer , who stood at his door and yawned at the chemist . The watchmaker , always poring over a little desk with a magnifying-glass at his eye , and always inspected by a group of smock-frocks poring over him through the glass of his shop-window , seemed to be about the only person in the High Street whose trade engaged his attention . Mr. Pumblechook and I breakfasted at eight o'clock in the parlor behind the shop , while the shopman took his mug of tea and hunch of bread and butter on a sack of peas in the front premises . I considered Mr. Pumblechook wretched company . Besides being possessed by my sister 's idea that a mortifying and penitential character ought to be imparted to my diet , -- besides giving me as much crumb as possible in combination with as little butter , and putting such a quantity of warm water into my milk that it would have been more candid to have left the milk out altogether , -- his conversation consisted of nothing but arithmetic . On my politely bidding him Good morning , he said , pompously , `` Seven times nine , boy ? ''