about eleven o'clock
`` Oh , no . The wind sounds a little lonesome to-night , that 's all . '' But he took his little girl into his arms and held her close . This was the story the mystic told : It was about eleven o'clock of an October night . The street was one of the worst of the city , but it was Monday -- one of its quiet nights . The saloons flared floods of feverish light upon the walk , and breathed their terrible odors , like caverns leading downward into hell . Restless , loitering crowds moved to and fro , with rasping , uncertain footsteps , out of which the click of health had gone .