GODLEIGH. [Looking at him in doubt] 'Tes the last, then, Tam.
[Having received his beer, JARLAND stands, leaning against the bar, drinking.]
BURLACOMBE. [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.