BURLACOMBE, FREMAN, JIM BERE, and MORSE the blacksmith. CLYST
is squatting on a stool by the bar, and at the other end
JARLAND, sobered and lowering, leans against the lintel of the
porch leading to the door, round which are gathered five or six
sturdy fellows, dumb as fishes. No one sits in the chair. In
the unnatural silence that reigns, the distant sound of the
wheezy church organ and voices singing can be heard.

TAUSTAFORD. [After a prolonged clearing of his throat] What I mean
to zay is that 'tes no yuse, not a bit o' yuse in the world, not
duin' of things properly. If an' in case we'm to carry a resolution
disapprovin' o' curate, it must all be done so as no one can't, zay
nothin'.

SOL POTTER. That's what I zay, Mr. Trustaford; ef so be as 'tis to
be a village meetin', then it must be all done proper.

FREMAN. That's right, Sot Potter. I purpose Mr. Sot Potter into the
chair. Whu seconds that?

[A silence. Voices from among the dumb-as-fishes: "I du."]

CLYST. [Excitedly] Yu can't putt that to the meetin'. Only a
chairman can putt it to the meetin'. I purpose that Mr. Burlacombe--
bein as how he's chairman o' the Parish Council--take the chair.

FREMAN. Ef so be as I can't putt it, yu can't putt that neither.

TRUSTAFORD. 'Tes not a bit o' yuse; us can't 'ave no meetin' without
a chairman.