eleven o'clock
Her nights she spent in the beer cellar . My grandmother , shocked and grieved beyond expression , gave up her barrel and adopted bottles . The cat , thus condemned to enforced abstinence , meandered about the house for a day and a half in a disconsolate , quarrelsome mood . Then she disappeared , returning at eleven o'clock as tight as a drum . Where she went , and how she managed to procure the drink , we never discovered ; but the same programme was repeated every day . Some time during the morning she would contrive to elude our vigilance and escape ; and late every evening she would come reeling home across the fields in a condition that I will not sully my pen by attempting to describe . It was on Saturday night that she met the sad end to which I have before alluded .