Tom Anderson, Dare-Devil: A Young Virginian in the Revolution — page 188: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

170 Tom ANDERSON, DaRE-DEVIL perial Anglo-Saxon blood. White? Heé’s white as Rhody Gaston; and she’s white as the angels. Ain’t that so, Mrs. Jackson?” Losing not an instant, the surgeon dressed the saber-cut, bantering everybody meantime. “New shoes, — eh, Rhody? Bet you ain’t had’em on! Think too much of ’°em to wear ’em! Andy! I’ll swear!— Give you a chaw-terbacker for another gourd o’ water.” “Ain't he a pretty skin!” It was a girl’s mellifluent voice. “Andy, keep the flies off a minute, honey. What do you think, Doc?” “Tt won’t hold him down long. Got vitality enough to raise a dozen men! Yes; it was the Butcher's saber gave him that slash, they say.”’ For twenty-four hours Tom’s faculties concentrated themselves on the phases of a newly discovered planet — the revolutions of a wooden bowl of hot porridge. By and by he noticed it was not Unaka’s hand that fed him. “Where is he?” “Waiting on the wounded.” “Was he hurt?” ‘Bruised; not wounded. One of the Butcher’s men rode him down. There, there! He ain’t bad off. And your fever’s "most gone. Go to sleep.” When he waked, he saw Unaka moving cat-footed in his tattered moccasins among the wounded, helping the sur- geon. He surveyed the log walls and clapboard roof; the turkey-tail that wagged everlastingly above him. By the way, who was it that worked that fly-brush? He turned his head. A boy was squatted beside him: a lean, keen, freckled-faced, ready-fisted, volant, volitive boy; as full of energy as the sun in the heavens. “Hello!” staring feebly at the fly-brush. “Any of that turkey left?” “Lordy!” with an appreciative giggle; “somebody shot hit afore Bug-on’s S’render!” ‘“{’m too late, then.” A grin — cordial, companionable, big-souled — over- spread the freckled face. LTom’s eyes were closing. Eomicbooks: Go m