three o'clock
Amidships she was wallowing first one rail under and then the other , flooding the waist more often than not . McCoy was shouting something he could not hear . He reached out , clutched the other by the shoulder , and drew him close so that his own ear was close to the other 's lips . `` It 's three o'clock , '' came McCoy 's voice , still retaining its dovelike quality , but curiously muffled , as if from a long way off . `` We 've run two hundred and fifty . Crescent Island is only thirty miles away , somewhere there dead ahead . There 's no lights on it .