and Bobbie Jarland, a boy of fifteen, are dancing a truncated “Figure of Eight”; and their shadow are dancing alongside on the walls.  Shoes and some apples have been thrown down close to the side door through which they have come in.  Now and then Ivy, the smallest and best of the dancers, ejaculates words of direction, and one of the youths grunts or breathes loudly out of the confusion of his mind.  Save for this and the dumb beat and jingle of the sleepy tambourine, there is no sound.  The dance comes to its end, but the drowsy Tibby goes on beating.

Mercy.  That’ll du, Tibby; we’re finished.  Ate yore apple. [The stolid Tibby eats her apple.]

Clyst. [In his teasing, excitable voice] Yu maids don’t dance ’elf’s well as us du.  Bobbie ’e’s a great dancer.  ’E dance vine.  I’m a gude dancer, meself.

Gladys.  A’n’t yu conceited just?

Clyst. Aw!  Ah!  Yu’ll give me kiss for that. [He chases, but cannot catch that slippery white figure] Can’t she glimmer!

Mercy.  Gladys!  Up ladder!

Clyst. Yu go up ladder; I’ll catch ’ee then.  Naw, yu maids, don’t yu give her succour.  That’s not vair [Catching hold of mercy, who gives a little squeal.]

Connie.  Mercy, don’t!  Mrs. Burlacombe’ll hear.  Ivy, go an’ peek.

     [Ivy goes to flee side door and peers through.]

Clyst. [Abandoning the chase and picking up an apple—­they all have the joyous irresponsibility that attends forbidden doings] Ya-as, this is a gude apple.  Luke at Tibby!

     [Tibby, overcome by drowsiness, has fallen back into the hay,
     asleep.  Gladys, leaning against the hay breaks into humming:]

    “There cam’ three dukes a-ridin’, a-ridin’, a-ridin’,
     There cam’ three dukes a ridin’
     With a ransy-tansy tay!”

Clyst. Us ‘as got on vine; us’ll get prize for our dancin’.

Connie.  There won’t be no prize if Mr. Strangway goes away.  ’Tes funny ’twas Mrs. Strangway start us.

Ivy. [From the door] ’Twas wicked to hiss him.

     [A moment’s hush.]

Clyst. Twasn’t I.

Bobbie.  I never did.

Gladys.  Oh!  Bobbie, yu did!  Yu blew in my ear.

Clyst.  ’Twas the praaper old wind in the trees.  Did make a brave noise, zurely.

Mercy.  ‘E shuld’n’ ’a let my skylark go.

Clyst. [Out of sheer contradictoriness] Ya-as, ’e shude, then. 
What du yu want with th’ birds of the air?  They’m no gude to yu.

Ivy. [Mournfully] And now he’s goin’ away.

Clyst. Ya-as; ’tes a pity.  He’s the best man I ever seen since I was comin’ from my mother.  He’s a gude man.  He’em got a zad face, sure enough, though.