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.
Freman. [Jeering] No; ’e ’ad a bird on ’is ’ead.
Clyst. [With a silencing grin] He went on playin’ an’ playin’. The ponies they never muved. An’ all the dimsy-white flowers they waved and waved, an’ the wind it went over ’em. Gav’ me a funny feelin’.
Godleigh. Clyst, yu take the cherry bun!
Clyst. Where’s that cider, Mr. Godleigh?
Godleigh. [Bending over the cider] Yu’ve
a— ’ad tu much already,
Tim.
[The door is opened,
and Tam Jarland appears. He walks rather
unsteadily; a man with
a hearty jowl, and sullen, strange;
epileptic-looking eyes.]
Clyst. [Pointing to Jarland] ’Tis Tam Jarland there ’as the cargo aboard.
Jarland. Avenin’, all! [To Godleigh]
Pinto’ beer. [To Jim Bere]
Avenin’, Jim.
[Jim Bere looks at him and smiles.]
Godleigh. [Serving him after a moment’s hesitation] ’Ere y’are, Tam. [To Clyst, who has taken out his paper again] Where’d yu get thiccy paper?