Penny Dreadfuls, 1916 · page 207 of 400
Tom Anderson, Dare-Devil: A Young Virginian in the Revolution — page 207: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a page of running prose from what appears to be a Victorian penny dreadful titled "Old Rory" (page 189). The text depicts a scene in which a character named McIntosh welcomes a guest named Tom into his home, offers him hospitality and wine looted from a Spanish officer after the battle of Musa, and then recounts—with some moral ambivalence—how he shot a Spanish captain of Grenadiers from the bushes during combat. McIntosh also mentions Colonel McIntosh (Sir Æneas), whom he compares to the fallen Spanish officer for his fine dress and bearing. The dialogue is rendered in Scottish dialect throughout.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
O_tp Rory 189 no mean host, this. Fumbling with the tinder-box and candle in the dark, McIntosh said to somebody stirring about in the gloom, *‘ Weel, what hae ye to say for yoursel’, Luath:” The answer was a joyful whine, and as the candle came to time, [om saw a beautiful shepherd dog stealing upon him, measuring him with her red-gold eyes. She sniffed his calves: condescendingly; critically; enthusiasti- cally; and, lifting her silky paw, laid it in Tom’s palm. McIntosh slapped his thigh and burst into a guffaw that made the windows rattle. Luath, he declared delightedly, was “nae fule.’’ The coals stirred, wood heaped on, the guest was wrapped in a blanket and seated before the fire. From the little cupboard in the wall came a bottle and two pewter mugs. “Canary, laddie,”’ putting a cup in Tom’s hand, “looted after the battle o Musa. From a Spanish officer’s haver- a, ye ken. Aweel! He never missed them. I shot him rst “What do you mean?” “What I say. He was a captain 0’ Spanish Grenadiers, charging at the head of his company, when I — like a var- mint!— shot him from the bushes. A fine, brave fallow. A young Don, ye ken. Dressed like ony Pair-ris doll- babby. Sir HEneas pits me muckle 1 in mind of him. A brave soldier; done up in finery an’ laces; wi’ musk an’ essences, an’ siclike nick-nackets. Aweel! I shot the Don frae the bushes! Like avarmint! Like a Creek Injun!— the only mean thing Rory McIntosh has ever done. I'll say that muckle for mysel’.” “T am sure of it,’ with conviction. His friend nodded gravely. “There were fower bottles. When I cam up to the Capital I fetched twa for mysel’, an’ twa for Colonel McIntosh.” “Colonel McIntosh? Is Sir Hineas Colonel McIntosh?”’ “Wha else? He’s Colonel o’ the Seventy-first Regiment o’ British Dragoons. He’s I'he McIntosh, the head o’ the Clan McIntosh, ye ken; an’ he’s Sir Eneas because he was born to the title. It pleased God to mak him so. So, ye see, CORNIECMOO@ SS (E() m