midnight
Tom did not understand , but he knew the voice . It was that of Crailey Gray . He heard the same voice again that night , and again stood unseen . Long after midnight he was still tramping the streets on his lonely rounds , when he chanced to pass the Rouen House , which hostelry bore , to the uninitiated eye , the appearance of having closed its doors upon all hospitalities for the night , in strict compliance with the law of the city fathers , yet a slender wand of bright light might be discovered underneath the street door of the bar-room . From within the merry retreat issued an uproar of shouting , raucous laughter and the pounding of glasses on tables , heralding all too plainly the hypocrisy of the landlord , and possibly that of the city fathers also . Tom knew what company was gathered there : gamblers , truckmen , drunken farmers , men from the river steamers making riot while their boats lay at the wharf , with a motley gathering of good-for-nothings of the back-alleys , and tippling clerks from the Main Street stores . There came loud cries for a song , and , in answer , the voice of Crailey rose over the general din , somewhat hoarse , and never so musical when he sang as when he spoke , yet so touching in its dramatic tenderness that soon the noise fell away , and the roisterers sat quietly to listen .