Twelve o'clock
`` Well , so far it 's pretty good . But I do n't know that the American stage is clamouring for any hod carriers and mortar mixers , exactly . '' A whistle blew . Twelve o'clock . Bricks , mortar , scoops , shovels were abandoned . The women , in their great clod-hopping shoes , flew chattering to the tiny hut where their lunch boxes were stored . The men followed more slowly , a mere handful of them .