five o'clock
In a far corner , near a window , sat Joseph Loveredge reading a magazine . Jack Herring rubbed his eyes , then rose and crossed the room . `` I thought at first , '' explained Jack Herring , recounting the incident later in the evening , `` that I must be dreaming . There he sat , drinking his five o'clock whisky-and-soda , the same Joey Loveredge I had known for fifteen years ; yet not the same . Not a feature altered , not a hair on his head changed , yet the whole face was different ; the same body , the same clothes , but another man . We talked for half an hour ; he remembered everything that Joey Loveredge had known . I could n't understand it .