It was nine-thirty when I got there. The hack had had a rough time with the fish-market carts being pushed and dragged across the street and up the street and down the street, loaded with crates of cod and mackerel and maybe sea serpent, for all I knew, all completely ignoring the traffic.
The dock-hands wore mackinaws or leather jackets with baling hooks slung across the shoulders. I got out and maneuvered along the sidewalks stacked solid with crates and barrels, behind which you could see the open fronts of the great downtown fish markets, where n***d electric bulbs hung over the stalls of fish and seafood and tried to dispel the gloom under the s******g new expressway which carried traffic overhead.
The cold air reeked of fish as I pushed on, coming to a small dock beyond the last of
