hard
training.

[With one of her grim winks, and a nod, she goes.]

TRUSTAFORD. [Replacing a hat which is black, hard, and not very new,
on his long head, above a long face, clean-shaved but for little
whiskers] What's the old grey mare want, then? [With a horse-laugh]
'Er's lukin' awful wise!

GODLEIGH. [Enigmatically] Ah!

TRUSTAFORD. [Sitting on the bench dose to the bar] Drop o' whisky,
an' potash.

BURLACOMBE. [A taciturn, alien, yellowish man, in a worn soft hat]
What's wise, Godleigh? Drop o' cider.

GODLEIGH. Nuse? There's never no nuse in this 'ouse. Aw, no! Not
wi' my permission. [In imitation] This is a Christian village.

TRUSTAFORD. Thought the old grey mare seemed mighty busy. [To
BURLACOMBE] 'Tes rather quare about the curate's wife a-cumin'
motorin' this mornin'. Passed me wi' her face all smothered up in a
veil, goggles an' all. Haw, haw!

BURLACOMBE. Aye!

TRUSTAFORD. Off again she was in 'alf an hour. 'Er didn't give poor
old curate much of a chance, after six months.

GODLEIGH. Havin' an engagement elsewhere--No scandal, please,
gentlemen.

BURLACOMBE. [Acidly] Never asked to see my missis. Passed me in
the yard like a stone.

TRUSTAFORD. 'Tes a little bit rumoursome lately about 'er doctor.

GODLEIGH. Ah! he's the favourite. But 'tes a dead secret; Mr.
Trustaford. Don't yu never repate it--there's not a cat don't know
it already!

BURLACOMBE frowns, and TRUSTAFORD utters his laugh. The door is
opened and FREMAN, a dark gipsyish man in the dress of a farmer,
comes in.

GODLEIGH. Don't yu never tell Will Freman what 'e told me!

FREMAN. Avenin'!

TRUSTAFORD. Avenin', Will; what's yure glass o' trouble?

FREMAN. Drop o' eider, clove, an' dash o' gin. There's blood in the
sky to-night.

BURLACOMBE. Ah! We'll 'ave fine weather now, with the full o' the
mune.

FREMAN. Dust o' wind an' a drop or tu, virst, I reckon. 'Earl t'
nuse about curate an' 'is wife?

GODLEIGH. No, indeed; an' don't yu tell us. We'm Christians 'ere in
this village.

FREMAN. 'Tain't no very Christian nuse, neither. He's sent 'er off
to th' doctor. "Go an' live with un," 'e says; "my blessin' on ye."
If 'er'd a-been mine, I'd 'a tuk the whip to 'er. Tam Jarland's
maid, she yeard it all. Christian, indeed! That's brave
Christianity! "Goo an' live with un!" 'e told 'er.

BURLACOMBE. No, no; that's not sense--a man to say that. I'll not
'ear that