Clyst.  ’Tes awful peculiar—­like a drame.  Mr. Burlacombe ’e don’t like to hear tell about drames.  A guess a won’t tell ’ee, arter that.

Freman.  Out wi’ it, Tim.

Clyst.  ’Tes powerful thirsty to-day, Mr. Godleigh.

Godleigh. [Drawing him some cider] Yu’re all wild cat’s talk, Tim; yu’ve a-got no tale at all.

Clyst. [Moving for the cider] Aw, indade!

Godleigh.  No tale, no cider!

Clyst. Did ye ever year tell of Orphus?

Trustaford.  What?  The old vet. up to Drayleigh?

Clyst. Fegs, no; Orphus that lived in th’ old time, an’ drawed the bastes after un wi’ his music, same as curate was tellin’ the maids.

Freman.  I’ve ‘eard as a gipsy over to Vellacott could du that wi’ ’is viddle.

Clyst.  ’Twas no gipsy I see’d this arternune; ’twee Orphus, down to Mr. Burlacombe’s long medder; settin’ there all dark on a stone among the dimsy-white flowers an’ the cowflops, wi’ a bird upon ’is ’ead, playin’ his whistle to the ponies.

Freman. [Excitedly] Yu did never zee a man wi’ a bird on ’is ’ead.

Clyst. Didn’ I?

Freman.  What sort o’ bird, then?  Yu tell me that.

Trustaford.  Praaper old barndoor cock.  Haw, haw!

Godleigh. [Soothingly] ’Tes a vairy-tale; us mustn’t be tu partic’lar.

Burlacombe:  In my long medder?  Where were yu, then, Tim Clyst?

Clyst. Passin’ down the lane on my bike.  Wonderful sorrowful-fine music ’e played.  The ponies they did come round ’e—­yu cud zee the tears rennin’ down their chakes; ’twas powerful sad.  ’E ’adn’t no ’at on.

Freman. [Jeering] No; ’e ’ad a bird on ’is ’ead.

Clyst. [With a silencing grin] He went on playin’ an’ playin’.  The ponies they never muved.  An’ all the dimsy-white flowers they waved and waved, an’ the wind it went over ’em.  Gav’ me a funny feelin’.

Godleigh.  Clyst, yu take the cherry bun!

Clyst. Where’s that cider, Mr. Godleigh?

Godleigh. [Bending over the cider] Yu’ve a—­ ’ad tu much already,
Tim.

     [The door is opened, and tam Jarland appears.  He walks rather
     unsteadily; a man with a hearty jowl, and sullen, strange;
     epileptic-looking eyes.]

Clyst. [Pointing to Jarland] ’Tis Tam Jarland there ’as the cargo aboard.

Jarland.  Avenin’, all! [To Godleigh] Pinto’ beer. [To Jim Bere]
Avenin’, Jim.

     [Jim Bere looks at him and smiles.]

Godleigh. [Serving him after a moment’s hesitation] ’Ere y’are, Tam. [To Clyst, who has taken out his paper again] Where’d yu get thiccy paper?