about three o'clock
The auto slips its clutch , and the engine begins to clang and clatter , and somebody off behind a red-hot mountain in the distance begins ringing an enormous bell just as you slide downward into a crater of flame -- and then you wake up entirely , and the fire-bell is going `` clang-clang-clang-clang-clang , '' while below you hear the ringing crunch of your neighbor 's feet on the cold snow , and outside the north window there is a red glare which may be either the end of the world or another exploded lamp in ` Bige Brinton 's chicken-incubator ; you wo n't know which until you have stabbed both feet into one pants-leg , crawled all over the cold floor for a missing sock , and run half a mile , double-reefing your nightshirt to keep it from trailing out from under your overcoat . That 's what a fire-alarm means in Homeburg . It 's just as interesting in the daytime too . Imagine a summer afternoon in Homeburg about three o'clock . It 's hotter than a simoon in the Sahara , and the aggregate business being done along Front Street is nineteen cents an hour . The nearest approach to life on the street is Sam McAtaw sitting in a shady spot on the edge of the sidewalk and leaning against a telephone-pole , sound asleep . You 're sitting in your office chair , with your feet on the desk , dozing , when suddenly you hear footsteps outside .