"Thee'rt so good as wed already; so do thy wedded man's duty, an' kiss
th' hugliest!"
It was true. Ruby, halting with her lantern a pace or two behind the
dark semicircle of backs, saw her perfidious Zeb moving from right to
left slowly round the circle of men and maids that, with joined hands
and screams of laughter, danced as slowly in the other direction.
She saw him pause once--twice, feign to throw the kerchief over one,
then still pass on, calling out over the racket:--
"I sent a letter to my love,
I carried water in my glove,
An' on the way I dropped it--dropped it--dropped it--"
He dropped the kerchief over Modesty Prowse.
"Zeb!"
Young Zeb whipped the kerchief off Modesty's neck, and spun round as it
shot.
The dancers looked; the few sober men by the fire turned and looked
also.
"'Tis Ruby Tresidder!" cried one of the girls; "'Wudn' be i' thy shoon,
Young Zeb, for summatt."
Zeb shook his wits together and dashed off towards the spot, twenty
yards away, where Ruby stood holding the lantern high, its ray full on
her face. As she started she kicked off her clogs, turned, and ran for
her life.
Then, in an instant, a new game began upon the sands.
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