half past seven
Twice a week , rain or shine , Hiram White never failed to scrape his feet upon Billy Martin 's doorstep . Twice a week , on Sundays and Thursdays , he never failed to take his customary seat by the kitchen fire . He rarely said anything by way of talk ; he nodded to the farmer , to his wife , to Sally and , when he chanced to be at home , to her brother , but he ventured nothing further . There he would sit from half past seven until nine o'clock , stolid , heavy , impassive , his dull eyes following now one of the family and now another , but always coming back again to Sally . It sometimes happened that she had other company -- some of the young men of the neighborhood . The presence of such seemed to make no difference to Hiram ; he bore whatever broad jokes might be cracked upon him , whatever grins , whatever giggling might follow those jokes , with the same patient impassiveness . There he would sit , silent , unresponsive ; then , at the first stroke of nine o'clock , he would rise , shoulder his ungainly person into his overcoat , twist his head into his three-cornered hat , and with a `` Good night , Sally , I be going now , '' would take his departure , shutting the door carefully to behind him .