[He chuckles.]

Godleigh.  Now, Tim Clyst, if an’ in case yu’ve a-got some scandal on yer tongue, don’t yu never unship it here.  Yu go up to Rectory where ’twill be more relished-like.

Clyst. [Waving the paper] Will y’ give me a drink for this, Mr. Godleigh?  ’Tes rale funny.  Aw! ‘tes somethin’ swats.  Butiful readin’.  Poetry.  Rale spice.  Yu’ve a luv’ly voice for readin’, Mr. Godleigh.

Godleigh. [All ears and twinkle] Aw, what is it then?

Clyst. Ah!  Yu want t’know tu much.

     [Putting the paper in his pocket.]

     [While he is speaking, Jim Bere has entered quietly, with his
     feeble step and smile, and sits down.]

Clyst. [Kindly] Hello, Jim!  Cat come ’ome?

Jim Bere.  No.

[All nod, and speak to him kindly.  And Jim Bere smiles at them, and his eyes ask of them the question, to which there is no answer.  And after that he sits motionless and silent, and they talk as if he were not there.]

Godleigh.  What’s all this, now—­no scandal in my ’ouse!

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.