midnight
He had eaten nothing since breakfast , but he was not hungry . What if he did steal quietly over to the river , and end it all ? The desperation was hardly black enough for that . Somewhere near midnight he strolled home : how much longer would there be a home , he wondered ? He thrust his hand in his pocket , and the bit of folded paper struck sharp against his fingers , so he drew it out . Hardly the familiar school-boy scrawl : Jack used to hate writing , he remembered . This had a decisive force about it .