three o'clock
Sometimes , in the steaming , sizzling heat , as he swung the heavy irons back and forth over the white garments , it came to him that it was a dream . In a short while , or maybe after a thousand years or so , he would awake , in his little room with the ink-stained table , and take up his writing where he had left off the day before . Or maybe that was a dream , too , and the awakening would be the changing of the watches , when he would drop down out of his bunk in the lurching forecastle and go up on deck , under the tropic stars , and take the wheel and feel the cool tradewind blowing through his flesh . Came Saturday and its hollow victory at three o'clock . `` Guess I 'll go down an ' get a glass of beer , '' Joe said , in the queer , monotonous tones that marked his week-end collapse . Martin seemed suddenly to wake up . He opened the kit bag and oiled his wheel , putting graphite on the chain and adjusting the bearings .