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Thus, from the open door, the villagers calculated the chances of being able to finish the evening meal at leisure and still be down at the quay in time to see Seth Clubbe bring his ship alongside. 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.
Theoretically, the rector was at the call of any of his parishioners at all moments; but in practice the people of Farlingford never sought his help. "A gentleman," said Marvin, vaguely; "well, let him come in, Sarah." Miriam and Barebone sat silently looking at the door. But the man who appeared there was not Dormer Colville. It was John Turner.
"Skipper was a Farlingford man, name of Doy," he continued. "Long as he lived he was pestered by inquiries from the French government respecting a Dieppe fishing-smack supposed to have been picked up abandoned at sea. He had picked up no fishing-smack, and he answered no letters about it. He was an old man when it happened, and he died at sea soon after my indentures expired.
A man was sitting on a piece of timber on the quay, smoking as he looked seaward. But there was no one else in sight. For Farlingford was half depopulated, and it was tea-time. Across the river lay the marshes, unbroken by tree or hedge, barren of even so much as a hut. In the distance, hazy and grey in the eye of the North Sea, a lighthouse stood dimly, like a pillar of smoke.
The churchyard lay on the slope of rising ground upon which the village of Farlingford straggled upward in one long street. Farlingford had once been a town of some commercial prosperity. Its story was the story of half a dozen ports on this coast a harbour silted up, a commerce absorbed by a more prosperous neighbour nearer to the railway.
Then he turned to the side of the mantelpiece and took the church keys from the nail. For everybody knows where everybody else keeps his keys in Farlingford. He forgot to shut the door behind him, and River Andrew, pessimistically getting into his sea-boots, swore at his retreating back.
The moss-grown slip-way, where "The Last Hope" had been drawn up for repair, stood gaunt and empty, half submerged by the flowing tide. Many Farlingford men were engaged in the winter fisheries on the Dogger, and farther north, in Lowestoft boats. In winter, Farlingford thrust out into the North Sea, surrounded by marsh is forgotten by the world.
Since the beginning that far-off beginning at Farlingford their respective positions had been quite clearly defined. Colville, the elder by nearly twenty years, had always been the guide and mentor and friend the compulsory pilot he had gaily called himself. He had a vast experience of the world. He had always moved in the best French society.
Captain Clubbe was a Farlingford man. "The Last Hope" was a Farlingford built ship, and Seth Clubbe was not the captain to go past his own port for the sake of saving a few pounds. "Farlingford's his nation," they said of him down at the quay. "Born and bred here, man and boy. He's not likely to put her into a Thames dry-dock while the slip-way's standing empty."
This was followed by the gurgle of a rope through a well-greased sheave and the square lug, which had been the joy of little Sep Marvin at Farlingford, crept up to the truck of the stubby mast. "There is no wind for that," remarked Marie, pessimistically. "There will be to spare in a few minutes," answered Barebone, and the monosyllabic Jean gave an acquiescent grunt.
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