Penny Dreadfuls, 1916 · page 158 of 400
Tom Anderson, Dare-Devil: A Young Virginian in the Revolution — page 158: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# Page Analysis This is running prose from page 142 of *Tom Anderson, Dare-Devil*, a Victorian penny dreadful. The text describes an action sequence: Troupe, apparently wounded and losing blood, rides toward Valley while struggling to remain conscious. An old man gives him a horse. Meanwhile, military drill sergeant Bob Brevard trains recruits nearby; Peachy Lewis spots what appears to be prisoners being escorted by an Indian (Unaka) and Troupe, and rushes to investigate, only to recognize Troupe. A gilded lieutenant then arrives on horseback. The passage emphasizes suspense, physical danger, and melodramatic detail characteristic of the genre.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
142 Tom ANDERSON, DARE-DEVIL ing. What if he should drop from loss of blood before they reached Valley? “They ’d cover us like a pack of wolves.” He put forth all the will that within him lay; and he came of strong- willed stock. At the foot of the mountain an old man stared in Troupe’s ghastly face, dismounted, and gave the boy his horse. How much longer would he be able to hold out? If the bunch he was driving ahead of him suspected that he could not see— how—to— shoot — To turn blind — like that — now! “Have me— by the throat — directly.” The shriek of a fife came across an old Bermuda-field on the outskirts of town. Distinctly, on the spring breeze, the drill-sergeant’s roar: “Shoulder-r-r arms! Present arms |” The drill-sergeant was giving Bob Brevard’s raw re- cruits the devil. The gold-laced youth “ bustin’ round” on a black war-horse was Bob Brevard himself. But Troupe’s bloodshot eyes saw nothing. “Unaka — for — God’s sake — yell!” “Chief!” hissed Unaka. And the reeling boy clamped the saddle with his cold knees. The Indian let out the war- cry of the Cherokees. It was the scream of a wild stallion. Scared faces showed in doors and windows; but out in the Bermuda-field the fife drowned him. Peachy Lewis had found out that Bob Brevard was pay- ing the drill-sergeant a silver pound a day “out of his own pocket, bless your soul,” to drill “the green bucks.” So there was Peachy, stretched out on the grass, to hear the drill-sergeant ‘cuss a pound’s worth.” He was not slow to see a gang of prisoners marching along the lane under convoy: “One Indian and one fellow on horseback, a-gyuardin’ the whole gang!”’ He sped across the field, to hail Unaka with a whoop of excitement. “Prisoners? Whoop-ee/” and then he recognized Troupe, and hugged himself with ecstasy. But he found his legs when bidden. The gilded lieutenant came galloping up, the sunset light on his prodigal gold lace — no mean sight, if Troupe could have seen it. Eomicbooks (E() m