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 hard clenched.  The church bell has stopped slow ringing, and begun its five minutes’ hurrying note.]

Trustaford. [Rising, and trying to hook his arm into Jarland’s] Come away, Tam; yu’ve a-’ad to much, man.

Jarland. [Shaking him off] Zee, ’e darsen’t touch me; I might ’it un in the vase an’ ’e darsen’t; ’e’s afraid—­like ‘e was o’ the doctor.

     [He raises the pewter as though to fling it, but it is seized by
     Godleigh from behind, and falls clattering to the floor. 
     Strangway has not moved.]

Jarland. [Shaking his fist almost in his face] Luke at un, Luke at un!  A man wi’ a slut for a wife——­

[As he utters the word “wife” Strangway seizes the outstretched fist, and with a jujitsu movement, draws him into his clutch, helpless.  And as they sway and struggle in the open window, with the false strength of fury he forces Jarland through.  There is a crash of broken glass from outside.  At the sound Strangway comes to himself.  A look of agony passes over his face.  His eyes light on Jim Bere, who has suddenly risen, and stands feebly clapping his hands.  Strangway rushes out.]

     [Excitedly gathering at the window, they all speak at once.]

Clyst. Tam’s hatchin’ of yure cucumbers, Mr. Godleigh.

Trustaford.  ’E did crash; haw, haw!

Freman.  ‘Twas a brave throw, zurely.  Whu wid a’ thought it?

Clyst. Tam’s crawlin’ out. [Leaning through window] Hello, Tam—­ ‘ow’s t’ base, old man?

Freman. [Excitedly] They’m all comin’ up from churchyard to zee.

Trustaford.  Tam du luke wonderful aztonished; haw, haw!  Poor old
Tam!

Clyst. Can yu zee curate?  Reckon ’e’m gone into church.  Aw, yes; gettin’ a bit dimsy-service time. [A moment’s hush.]

Trustaford.  Well, I’m jiggered.  In ’alf an hour he’m got to prache.

Godleigh.  ’Tes a Christian village, boys.

     [Feebly, quietly, Jim Bere laughs.  There is silence; but the
     bell is heard still ranging.]