Penny Dreadfuls, 1916 · page 114 of 400
Tom Anderson, Dare-Devil: A Young Virginian in the Revolution — page 114: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a page of running prose from a Victorian penny dreadful titled "Tom Anderson, Dare-Devil" (page 98). The text describes Tom Anderson imprisoned in a log cabin by a lean, wildcat-eyed captor who kicks him brutally and ties his feet. Tom realizes a letter he was carrying has gone missing, and his captor—having searched Tom's pockets and found only a knife and shillings—begins sharpening a hunting-knife while a hurricane approaches the mountain. The scene emphasizes Tom's physical distress and mounting dread.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
98 Tom ANDERSON, Dare-Devit stared wildly at the fellow before him. Big, lean, with the muscles and eye of a wildcat, he was. Though not ill- favored, he inspired anything but a sense of security. He kindled a torch, and, holding it above his head, stood face to face with his prisoner, absorbing every line of him, from his curling hair — its riband gone — to his arching instep, to the shoe that had lost its buckle. It was a consuming scrutiny. ‘“Tripped me, did ye? Well, ye air the fust ‘n ever done it.’ This with a brutal kick that drove Tom backward. He fell; his arms still bound behind him. His blood ran fire. His rage was physical pain. ‘““Wants to make me lose my nerve. Hope he won't put his hoof in my face.’”’ Having first tied [om’s feet together, the man dragged a saddle out of a corner, and went out, chaining the door. By and by more light came down the chimney; there was no window. The room was a pen of logs, ““chinked” with clay. A cow-skin stretched on four stakes fora bed. A heap of potatoes, apples, pumpkins filled one corner. There was a pile of garments and “kyver- leds’’» — worn homespuns whose threads were spun and pounded into cloth by the hands of dead and gone women. Two hickory “forks” upheld a rifle; a hunting-knife was stuck in a crevice. And there were some sweet potatoes on the hearth. Mrs. Grattan had made him fill himself with huckleberry wine and corinth cake, and that was the last — The letter! With a shock he remembered that it was still in his pocket. What did they do? “Oh, my Lord! Did Arthur fail to get away?” The first rumble of the hurricane that at noon swept through the valley sent a tremor now along the mountain. The door was unfastened, admitting Tom’s enemy. He broiled collops on the coals, and made a meal. The boy’s limbs were untied; the gag taken from his rigid jaws; his pockets emptied. His knife, a few shillings — but no letter. “Lost — in that infernal hole.” His captor took down the hunting-knife and whetted it, absently. Tom’s bright hair was hanging loose over his shoulders. ‘he man Eomicbooks. Go m