twelve o'clock
`` And now , '' said Chatto , rising to go , `` as everything is satisfactory I hope you will go out to Hotten 's house and have a friendly talk . It is his wish . '' On Saturday morning I went . In pursuance , doubtless , of his design when he antedated that check he had died of a pork pie promptly on the stroke of twelve o'clock the night before -- which invalidated the check ! I have met American publishers who thought they knew something about the business of drinking champagne out of writers ' skulls . If this narrative -- which , upon my soul , is every word true -- teaches them humility by showing that genuine commercial sagacity is not bounded by geographical lines it will have served its purpose . Having assured myself that Mr. Hotten was really no more , I drove furiously bank-ward , hoping that the sad tidings had not preceded me -- and they had not .