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. Young Zeb, waving
his kerchief and pursuing the flying lantern, was turned, baffled,
intercepted--here, there, and everywhere--by the dancers, who scattered
over the beach with shouts and peals of laughter, slipping in between
him and his quarry. The elders by the fire held their sides and cheered
the sport. Twice Zeb was tripped up by a mischievous boot, floundered
and went sprawling; and the roar was loud and long. Twice he picked
himself up and started again after the lantern, that zigzagged now along
the fringe of the waves, now up towards the bonfire, now off along the
dark shadow of the cliffs.