eleven o'clock
said George curtly . `` Then damme you 've made an error . '' He missed his shot . He was careful not to allude to the subject again till , towards eleven o'clock , having , in his poetic phraseology , ` looked upon the drink when it was yellow , ' he drew aside the blind , and gazed out into the street . The murky blackness of the fog was but faintly broken by the lamps of the ` Red Pottle , ' and no shape of mortal man or thing was in sight . `` I ca n't help thinking of that poor Buccaneer , '' he said . `` He may be wandering out there now in that fog .