Jarland. [Lurching with his pewter up to Godleigh] The beggar!  I’ll be even wi’ un.

Godleigh. [Looking at him in doubt] ’Tes the last, then, Tam.

     [Having received his beer, Jarland stands, leaning against the
     bar, drinking.]

Burlacombe. [Suddenly] I don’ goo with what curate’s duin—­’tes tiff soft ‘earted; he’m a muney kind o’ man altogether, wi’ ’is flute an’ ’is poetry; but he’ve a-lodged in my ‘ouse this year an’ mare, and always ’ad an ‘elpin’ ‘and for every one.  I’ve got a likin’ for him an’ there’s an end of it.

Jarland.  The coward!

Trustaford.  I don’ trouble nothin’ about that, Tam Jarland. [Turning to Burlacombe] What gits me is ’e don’t seem to ’ave no zense o’ what’s his own praperty.

Jarland.  Take other folk’s property fast enough!

[He saws the air with his empty.  The others have all turned to him, drawn by the fascination that a man in liquor has for his fellow-men.  The bell for church has begun to rang, the sun is down, and it is getting dusk.]

He wants one on his crop, an’ one in ’is belly; ’e wants a man to take an’ gie un a gude hidin zame as he oughter give ’is fly-be-night of a wife.

     [Strangway in his dark clothes has entered, and stands by the
     door, his lips compressed to a colourless line, his thin,
     darkish face grey-white]

Zame as a man wid ha’ gi’en the doctor, for takin’ what isn’t his’n.

     All but Jarland have seen Strangway.  He steps forward, Jarland
     sees him now; his jaw drops a little, and he is silent.

Strangway.  I came for a little brandy, Mr. Godleigh—­feeling rather faint.  Afraid I mightn’t get through the service.

Godleigh. [With professional composure] Marteil’s Three Star, zurr, or ’Ennessy’s?

Strangway. [Looking at Jarland] Thank you; I believe I can do without, now. [He turns to go.]

     [In the deadly silence, Godleigh touches the arm of Jarland,
     who, leaning against the bar with the pewter in his hand, is
     staring with his strange lowering eyes straight at Strangway.]

Jarland. [Galvanized by the touch into drunken rage] Lave me be —­I’ll talk to un-parson or no.  I’ll tache un to meddle wi’ my maid’s bird.  I’ll tache un to kape ‘is thievin’ ’ands to ’imself.

     [Strangway turns again.]

Clyst. Be quiet, Tam.

Jarland. [Never loosing Strangway with his eyes—­like a bull-dog who sees red] That’s for one chake; zee un turn t’other, the white-livered buty!  Whu lets another man ’ave ‘is wife, an’ never the sperit to go vor un!

Burlacombe.  Shame, Jarland; quiet, man!