six o'clock
And the hours drift by . At four o'clock the Second relieves me , looking reproachfully at the slackened windsail . Still no breeze . And the greaser , who does not go off till six o'clock , observes , `` Oh , wot a -- ` appy Christmas ! '' Which would be profane if the temperature were lower . I change into white ducks again and saunter up to the bridge to talk to my friend the Mate . If I were to paraphrase Johnson 's burst of energy , I should say , `` Sir , I _ love _ the Mate ! ''