Tom Anderson, Dare-Devil: A Young Virginian in the Revolution — page 209: what you’re looking at

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

O_tp Rory IQI whit the warse for ’t; — like yoursel’.”” The “half-breed”’ squirmed. “Ye dinna ken General William McIntosh? He’s a lion amang men.” “T’ve heard so. And your own title, sir?” “Tam Major Roderick McIntosh. ‘Old Rory’ some kittle cattle ca’ me— when weel assured Major McIntosh’s back’s turned.” | » Major McIntosh,” abruptly, “it’s time I told you something about myself —”’ “Not till we hae had a bite to eat. I wad na talk to Luath aboot rabbit-huntin’ wi’ a hollow belly under her hide. I’ll gang doun tae the base o’ supplies, — whilk is the pastry-cook’s, ye ken, — an’ we'll hae our supper.” He came back with a pork-pie, and a string of sausages “long enow to hang the Governor o’ Moro Castle wi’,” he declared. Iom brewed the tea, and they fell to. The meal over, Rory stretched his great limbs to the warmth of the wood fire, in supreme content. Now came the question Tom had been burning to ask. Who was the tall, hand- some man in the boat? “Qu, aye! that was His Lordship; Lord Rawdon himsel’, ye ken.” “Lord Rawdon!” “Nae ither — an’ now here’s a gude half-bottle o’ the Canary yet. We’ll hae that, an’ then ye maun tell me your name and station. This time I'll gie yea toast. God save His Majesty! Drink!” The big Scot tossed off his wine, and then his eyes fell on Tom, standing tall and straight as an Indian, wrapped in his blanket, the untasted cup in hand. “How daur ye offer sic a like insult to our sovereign?” roared McIntosh. He drew his dirk and threw it on the table. “I’ll pit that there; forbye I might forget mysel’. Now, speak! Wha are ye? Whiter Red? — or what? How are you ca’ed? Speak! How daur ye flout His Majesty’s health?’ He was in a passion, and Tom had need to be cool. “T am as white as Sir Aineas. I am called ‘Dare-Devil.’ CORNICLOO eS (C©) m