eleven o'clock
So he did not linger late . The _ Blackbird _ had discharged at Crow Harbor late in the afternoon . She lay now at a Vancouver slip . By eleven o'clock he was aboard in his bunk , still thinking when he should have been asleep , staring wide-eyed at dim deck beams , his mind flitting restlessly from one thing to another . Steve Ferrara lay in the opposite bunk , wheezing his breath in and out of lungs seared by poison gas in Flanders . Smells of seaweed and tide-flat wafted in through open hatch and portholes . A full moon thrust silver fingers through deck openings .