We sat down on a bench that was wet with spray. Up towards the end of the pier several men were fishing over the railing. The night was black ; there was no moon, no stars. An irregular line of white foam marked the shore.
They Shoot Horses Don't They ?
Horace McCoy
1935
https://www.blackgate.com/2018/10/15/a-black-gat-in-the-hand-r-k-robinsons-pulp-repursed-they-shoot-horses-dont-they/
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