"There; that's it. That's where they buried Frenchman," said
Andrew--known as River Andrew. For there was another Andrew who
earned his living on the sea.

River Andrew had conducted the two gentlemen from "The Black Sailor"
to the churchyard by their own request. A message had been sent to
him in the morning that this service would be required of him, to
which he had returned the answer that they would have to wait until
the evening. It was his day to go round Marshford way with dried
fish, he said; but in the evening they could see the church if they
still set their minds on it.

River Andrew combined the light duties of grave-digger and clerk to
the parish of Farlingford in Suffolk with a small but steady
business in fish of his own drying, nets of his own netting, and
pork slain and dressed by his own weather-beaten hands.

For Farlingford lies in that part of England which reaches seaward
toward the Fatherland, and seems to have acquired from that
proximity an insatiable appetite for sausages and pork. On these
coasts the killing of pigs and the manufacture of sausages would
appear to employ the leisure of the few, who for one reason or
another have been deemed unfit for the sea. It is not our business
to inquire why River Andrew had never used the fickle element. All
that lay in the past. And in a degree he was saved from the
disgrace of being a landsman by the smell of tar and bloaters that
heralded his coming, by the blue jersey and the brown homespun
trousers which he wore all the week, and by the saving word which