Penny Dreadfuls, 1916 · page 206 of 400
Tom Anderson, Dare-Devil: A Young Virginian in the Revolution — page 206: 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 188). The text describes a drenched boy named Tom who has escaped from a ship in Charleston and is being aided by a Scottish Highlander named Rory McIntosh and companions. Tom, desperate and poorly dressed, is taken through the city by Rory, who wraps him in a plaid and treats him to food at a pastry-cook's shop while a piper plays Scottish tunes in the street. The narrative combines melodramatic tension (Tom fears recapture and execution) with colorful Scottish dialect dialogue.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
188 Tom ANDERSON, DarE-DEVIL warehoose, and follow your nose.”’ He turned upon Tom abruptly. “An’ wheer are ye gaun, laddie?”’ “God knows.” He was drenched. The wind from the sea almost cut him in two. His dress was a shirt and a pair of stockings. So soon as the skipper discovered the ghastly ruse, his prisoner would be hunted down. The boy knew nobody in the Capital. But yet! Sooner than turn his back on Charleston that night, he would risk the gibbet. Out yon- der somewhere was the prison-ship! And those words he had overheard in the galley! Ah, here was work to be done. “Tf I just had an Indian blanket, I’d get to work.” ‘“Coom awa. I offer ye the hospitality o’ my lodgings,” and Rory drew Tom’s dripping arm through his own. The negro darted ahead with the light. Dugald followed with the music. The big Highlander and Tom brought up the rear. The pipes shrilled forth, “Oh, Nannie, wilt thou gang wl me?” “Nannie would if she were in my shoes,’ laughing. ‘“T hae not been aboot Chairleston wi’out the pibroch,” McIntosh remarked pompously. “ Whiles, Sir George Clai- borne sends his ain piper to condooct me ower the city. Eh, sirs! Ye hae naething on your back, laddie. Pit my plaid aroond ye; we maun gang through the toun, ye ken. We canna gang sic a like way through the Capital, wi’ the pipes ca’ing the fowk to the windows,” — enveloping the boy in the tremendous velvet-soft wool plaid unwound from his own shoulders. They arrived at the pastry-cook’s, and Rory was prodi- gal with the shillings divided between Music and Light — Dugald and Sambo. His generosity resulted in more music; for the piper stopped in the street outside the pie- shop, and let loose the biggest screams in the bag, to the tune of “Cauld Kale o’ Aberdeen.” It “fair words butter no parsnips,” neither are they salad-oil for cold kale. Up some narrow stairs, into a bit of a bedroom over the shop, went Tom and his host. And b said Tom, b ECOMMIE OOO KS,(eC) m