Penny Dreadfuls, 1916 · page 162 of 400
Tom Anderson, Dare-Devil: A Young Virginian in the Revolution — page 162: 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 146). The text describes a wounded boy's dramatic awakening to a violent tornado near midnight, followed by the character Troupe's decision to saddle a horse and ride into the mountains through fog, apparently searching for an old cabin. The narrative emphasizes atmospheric horror and suspense, with vivid descriptions of the storm and Troupe's grim determination to proceed despite danger.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
146 Tom ANDERSON, DaARE-DEVIL It was late before the three ladies set out for Oxheart. They would be with Troupe first thing in the morning. The wounded boy continued to sleep; long and well. It was a momentous awakening. About midnight he started up, roused by a roar like that of an earthquake. [here was no wind. Not a leaf shook. The curtains at the open windows were stark as marble draperies. [he western sky was clear. The moon shone. But in the east the heavens were “Black as the Pit, from pole to pole”’; and the light of the moon blazed on the writhings of a tornado cloud. The funnel-shaped cloud was less than a mile beyond the town. A roaring, shrieking, screaming Force; crackling with electricity and hissing out “the un- translatable blasphemies of Hell!’ It was there. It was gone! It bounded to the crest of the Blue Ridge; and the primeval wilderness melted away like suet. “My God in heaven!” Troupe dressed himself and went softly out of the house. He felt weak, but clear-headed, sure-footed. He met no one but a stable boy, silly with fright from the spectacle to which he too had been a witness. With his assistance [roupe saddled one of the doctor’s horses, and, leaving a message for the master with the man, was gone. Day was on the mountain when he reached it. At first, light was of little help to his progress through pathless woods, because there was a fog on, as white as milk. The air was full of myrrh and amber — jessamine and sweet- shrub. The fog blanketed every object. His horse neighed briskly: an answering neigh, from somewhere behind the white curtain. Who might be there mattered not at all. | pothine on earth mattered now but the lifting of the cur- tain! If he could but make out the old cabin in those un- ploughed fields, he would be ready to meet any two-footed or four-footed creature that ever haunted those God- forsaken solitudes. He stopped pushing aside the wet EOMMICLOOOKS.(e©) m