nine o'clock
To begin with , a colossal and highly varnished Cherokee , once the figure-head of a West Indiaman , stood sentry by the gate and hung forward over the road , to the discomfiture of unwarned and absent-minded bagmen . The path to the door was guarded by a low fence of split-bamboo baskets that had once contained sugar from Batavia ; a coffee bag from the wreck of a Dutch barque served for door-mat ; a rum-cask with a history caught rain-water from the eaves ; and a lapdog 's pagoda -- a dainty affair , striped in scarlet and yellow , the jetsom of some passenger ship -- had been deftly adapted by Old Zeb , and stood in line with three straw bee-skips under the eastern wall . The next day but one after Christmas dawned deliciously in Porthlooe , bright with virginal sunshine , and made tender by the breath of the Gulf Stream . Uncle Issy , passing up the road at nine o'clock , halted by the Cherokee to pass a word with its proprietor , who presented the very antipodes of a bird 's - eye view , as he knocked about the crumbling clods with his visgy at the top of the slope . `` Mornin ' , Old Zeb ; how be ` ee , this dellicate day ? '' `` Brave , thankee , Uncle . '' `` An ' how 's Coden Rachel ? ''