lantern is hung
by a rope that lifts the bales of straw, to a long ladder
leaning against a rafter. This gives all the light there is,
save for a slender track of moonlight, slanting in from the end,
where the two great doors are not quite closed. On a rude bench
in front of a few remaining, stacked, square-cut bundles of last
year's hay, sits TIBBY JARLAND, a bit of apple in her mouth,
sleepily beating on a tambourine. With stockinged feet GLADYS,
IVY, CONNIE, and MERCY, TIM CLYST, 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