Penny Dreadfuls, 1916 · page 105 of 400
Tom Anderson, Dare-Devil: A Young Virginian in the Revolution — page 105: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a page of running prose from a Victorian penny dreadful (page 89, titled "WHERE'S TOM?"). The text depicts a dramatic scene in which a young woman named Miss Dare seizes control of a horse during a violent thunderstorm and rides it desperately through dangerous weather, apparently searching for someone named Tom. A witness named Pat Carr later recounts seeing her ride past like a "sperrit" (spirit), soaked and pale. The prose emphasizes melodramatic action and dialogue, with vivid descriptions of lightning, wind, and danger typical of sensational Victorian fiction.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
WHERE’s Tom? 89 Governor’s groom, who was doing his best to lead the horse away. “Miss Dare!”’ stammered the man. ~“Can’t you obey?” She caught the bridle out of his hand, and was ’cross- saddle in a twinkling. Not for nothing had she backed horses ever since she could walk. Came a blinding flash of lightning. The big horse stood straight in air. The little rider had the knee-clamp of a young ’Pache. | One man was audible above the remonstrant shouts. “By Heaven, she sticks to him like a cuckle-burr to a sheep!” Down the avenue thundered the big gray. The gates stood wide. Now the highway was theirs. And now the storm was loosed. On they rushed, beaten by rain and wind, blinded by lightning. Falling limbs whirled by them, again and again; struck at them — like devil’s wings — and were gone. Some tempest-bruised flying thing — it might have been a curlew — dashed into them and fell under foot. The horse shied, and Dare was near being trampled, like the seabird. “Tt won’t do for me to be killed. They'll never find Tom.” And she laid her cheek to the great outstretched neck, clinging to this spar of muscles. “Poor fellow; good fellow,” she panted. Which, being translated, was a prayer. On, through the howling tem- pest, lunged the horse. And now Dare knew that she was not alone. Somebody rode hard on Gray Eagle’s heels. That was all she could be sure of. Pat Carr said afterward, — and he told the story many a time and oft, — “There comes another flash of lightnin’, an’ thin I sees somebody ridin’ on the whirldwin’ whativer; loike a sperrit. An’ thin she takes the rail fence loike a fox- hunter; an’, indade an’ indade! by the time I could pull the peg out av the door — she wuz sthandin’ in it! Miss Dare? Murther! who ilse? White’ ez a hawthorn bush; wid slooshes av wather powerin’ from her clothes, jist; her CORNICLOO® cS (E©) m