One by one the men of Farlingford, pipe in mouth, went toward the
river, not forgetting the kindly, sideward jerk of the head for the
old Frenchman already waiting there.

It was nearly the top of the tide and the clear green water swelled
and gurgled round the weedy piles of the quay, bringing on its
surface tokens from the sea--shadowy jelly-fish, weed, and froth.
"The Last Hope" was quite close at hand now, swinging up in mid-
stream. The sun had set and over the marshes the quiet of evening
brooded hazily. Captain Clubbe had taken in all sail except a jib.
His anchor was swinging lazily overside, ready to drop. The
watchers on the quay could note the gentle rise and fall of the
crack little vessel as the tide lifted her from behind. She seemed
to be dancing to her home like a maiden back from school. The swing
of her tapering masts spoke of the heaving seas she had left behind.

It was characteristic of Farlingford that no one spoke. River
Andrew was already in his boat, ready to lend a hand should Captain
Clubbe wish to send a rope ashore. But it was obvious that the
captain meant to anchor in the stream for the night: so obvious
that if any one on shore had mentioned the conclusion his speech
would have called for nothing but a contemptuous glance from the
steady blue eyes all round him.

It was equally characteristic of a Farlingford ship that there were
no greetings from the deck. Those on shore could clearly perceive
the burly form of Captain Clubbe, standing by the weather rigging.
Wives could distinguish their husbands, and girls their lovers; but,
as these were attending to their business with a taciturn
concentration, no hand was raised in salutation.