ten o'clock
When we reach the turning at the top of the hill , he relapses upon rosy visions : `` Old man , it 's a good wound , after all . I shall be sent back , no mistake about it . '' His eyes wink and sparkle in the huge white clump that dithers on his shoulders -- a clump reddish on each side , where the ears were . From the depth where the village lies we hear ten o'clock strike . `` To hell with the time , '' says Volpatte `` it does n't matter to me any more what time it is . '' He becomes loquacious . It is a low fever that inspires his dissertation , and condenses it to the slow swing of our walk , in which his step is already jaunty .