[Amidst an uneasy shufflement of feet he moves to the door, and
     goes out into the darkness.]

Clyst. [Seeing his candidate thus depart] Rackon curate’s pretty well thru by now, I’m goin’ to zee. [As he passes Jarland] ’Ow’s to base, old man?

     [He goes out.  One of the dumb-as-fishes moves from the door and
     fills the apace left on the bench by Burlacombe’s departure.]

Jarland.  Darn all this puzzivantin’! [To Sol Potter] Got an’ zet in that chair.

Sol Potter. [Rising and going to the chair; there he stands, changing from one to the other of his short broad feet and sweating from modesty and worth] ’Tes my duty now, gentlemen, to call a meetin’ of the parishioners of this parish.  I beg therefore to declare that this is a meetin’ in accordance with my duty as chairman of this meetin’ which elected me chairman to call this meetin’.  And I purceed to vacate the chair so that this meetin’ may now purceed to elect a chairman.

     [He gets up from the chair, and wiping the sweat from his brow,
     goes back to his seat.]

Freman.  Mr. Chairman, I rise on a point of order.

Godleigh.  There ain’t no chairman.

Freman.  I don’t give a darn for that.  I rise on a point of order.

Godleigh.  ’Tes a chairman that decides points of order.  ’Tes certain yu can’t rise on no points whatever till there’s a chairman.

Trustaford.  ‘Tes no yuse yure risin’, not the least bit in the world, till there’s some one to set yu down again.  Haw, haw!

     [Voice from the dumb-as-Etches:  “Mr. Trustaford ’e’s right.”]

Freman.  What I zay is the chairman ought never to ’ave vacated the chair till I’d risen on my point of order.  I purpose that he goo and zet down again.

Godleigh.  Yu can’t purpose that to this meetin’; yu can only purpose that to the old meetin’ that’s not zettin’ any longer.

Freman. [Excitedly] I didn’ care what old meetin’ ’tis that’s zettin’.  I purpose that Sol Potter goo an’ zet in that chair again, while I rise on my point of order.

Trustaford. [Scratching his head] ’Tesn’t regular but I guess yu’ve got to goo, Sol, or us shan’t ’ave no peace.

     [Sol Potter, still wiping his brow, goes back to the chair.]

Morse. [Stolidly-to Freman] Zet down, Will Freman. [He pulls at him with a blacksmith’s arm.]

Freman. [Remaining erect with an effort] I’m not a-goin’ to zet down till I’ve arisen.

Jarland.  Now then, there ’e is in the chair.  What’s yore point of order?

Freman. [Darting his eyes here and there, and flinging his hand up to his gipsy-like head] ‘Twas—­’twas—­Darned ef y’ ’aven’t putt it clean out o’ my ’ead.