t, draws him into his clutch,
helpless. And as they sway and struggle in the open window,
with the false strength of fury he forces JARLAND through.
There is a crash of broken glass from outside. At the sound
STRANGWAY comes to himself. A look of agony passes over his
face. His eyes light on JIM BERE, who has suddenly risen, and
stands feebly clapping his hands. STRANGWAY rushes out.]

[Excitedly gathering at the window, they all speak at once.]

CLYST. Tam's hatchin' of yure cucumbers, Mr. Godleigh.

TRUSTAFORD. 'E did crash; haw, haw!

FREMAN. 'Twas a brave throw, zurely. Whu wid a' thought it?

CLYST. Tam's crawlin' out. [Leaning through window] Hello, Tam--
'ow's t' base, old man?

FREMAN. [Excitedly] They'm all comin' up from churchyard to zee.

TRUSTAFORD. Tam du luke wonderful aztonished; haw, haw! Poor old
Tam!

CLYST. Can yu zee curate? Reckon 'e'm gone into church. Aw, yes;
gettin' a bit dimsy-service time. [A moment's hush.]

TRUSTAFORD. Well, I'm jiggered. In 'alf an hour he'm got to prache.

GODLEIGH. 'Tes a Christian village, boys.

[Feebly, quietly, JIM BERE laughs. There is silence; but the
bell is heard still ranging.]

CURTAIN.

SCENE II

The same-in daylight dying fast. A lamp is burning on the bar.
A chair has been placed in the centre of the room, facing the
bench under the window, on which are seated from right to left,
GODLEIGH, SOL POTTER the village shopman, TRUSTAFORD,
BURLACOMBE, FREMAN, JIM BERE, and MORSE the blacksmith. CLYST
is squatting on a stool by the bar, and at the other end
JARLAND, sobered and lowering, leans against the lintel of the
porch leading to the door, round which are gathered five or six
sturdy fellows, dumb as fishes. No one sits in the chair. In
the unnatural silence that reigns, the distant sound of the
wheezy church organ and voices singing can be heard.

TAUSTAFORD. [After a prolonged clearing of his throat] What I mean
to zay is that 'tes no yuse, not a bit o' yuse in the world, not
duin' of things properly. If an' in case we'm to carry a resolution
disapprovin' o' curate, it must all be done so as no one can't, zay
nothin'.

SOL POTTER. That's what I zay, Mr. Trustaford; ef so be as 'tis to
be a village meetin', then it must be all done proper.

FREMAN. That's right, Sot Potter.