. [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!

[They are all looking at STRANGWAY, who, under JARLAND'S drunken
insults is standing rigid, with his eyes closed, and his hands