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.