Jarland. [With the comatose ferocity of drink] I’ll be even wi’ un.

Freman. [Excitedly] Tell ‘ee one thing—­’tes not a proper man o’ God to ‘ave about, wi’ ’is luse goin’s on.  Out vrom ’ere he oughter go.

Burlacombe.  You med go further an’ fare worse.

Freman.  What’s ‘e duin’, then, lettin’ ’is wife runoff?

Trustaford. [Scratching his head] If an’ in case ’e can’t kape ’er, ‘tes a funny way o’ duin’ things not to divorce ’er, after that.  If a parson’s not to du the Christian thing, whu is, then?

Burlacombe.  ’Tes a bit immoral-like to pass over a thing like that. 
Tes funny if women’s gain’s on’s to be encouraged.

Freman.  Act of a coward, I zay.

Burlacombe.  The curate ain’t no coward.

Freman.  He bides in yure house; ’tes natural for yu to stand up for un; I’ll wager Mrs. Burlacombe don’t, though.  My missis was fair shocked.  “Will,” she says, “if yu ever make vur to let me go like that, I widden never stay wi’ yu,” she says.

Trustaford.  ‘Tes settin’ a bad example, for zure.

Burlacombe.  ‘Tes all very airy talkin’; what shude ’e du, then?

Freman. [Excitedly] Go over to Durford and say to that doctor:  “Yu come about my missis, an’ zee what I’ll du to ‘ee.”  An’ take ’er ‘ome an’ zee she don’t misbe’ave again.

Clyst.  ’E can’t take ’er ef ‘er don’ want t’ come—­I’ve ’eard lawyer, that lodged wi’ us, say that.

Freman.  All right then, ’e ought to ’ave the law of ’er and ’er doctor; an’ zee ’er goin’s on don’t prosper; ’e’d get damages, tu.  But this way ‘tes a nice example he’m settin’ folks.  Parson indade!  My missis an’ the maids they won’t goo near the church to-night, an’ I wager no one else won’t, neither.

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.