Tom Anderson, Dare-Devil: A Young Virginian in the Revolution — page 260: what you’re looking at

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

2A2 Tom ANDERSON, DarRE-DEVIL was he? That other? The young fellow addressed as “ Cap- tain” had shed cloak and coat. He stood with his back turned to the concealed onlookers. He was slim, supple, graceful. His hair was powdered white as pearl. His lace ruffles were as rich as any man-of-fashion in Charleston could sport. He faced about. Tom’s fingers clenched Rory’s arm. “Eh, Daur-Deevil? What’s wrang wi’ ye?”’ “Look! Look! Oh, my God! — It’s Troupe.” His haughty head thrown back, his hand on his sword, and upon his breast a great flaring red rose, a clamorous note of color against his white linen, Troupe it was. “Weel dune, Captain! Is na hea bonny young gentle- man?’ A’maist like Prince Chairlie; an’ maggerful as The Argyle,” came Rory’s hoarse whisper. “hey ca’ed him Captain, but I dinna ken him —” “Tt’s a duel!” groaned Tom. Gaelic came to Rory’s relief. “Ye hae tauld the truth, laddie.”’ “Sir Atneas will be killed!”’ “Are ye clean daft, Daur-Deevil? The McIntosh be warsted!”’ Tom buried his face in his hands. Rory comforted’ Tom’s supposed anxiety for the baronet. ‘Dinna fash yoursel’ aboot Sir A‘neas, Tammie. There’s no a prettier swordsman i’ the Three Kingdoms. He'll rin his mon through — afore ye can say Jock-Robinson.”’ Tom clapped his hands over his ears. Rory laid a great paw on the shivering boy. “Look til the baronet! He’snoa mono’ my stature, an’ a’ thot; but wha wull say he does na look ilka inch the head o’ the Clan?” gazing proudly at his Chief. sir A‘neas, too, was in his shirt-sleeves now. Lloyd and Taliaferro conferred together. They awaited something. Up from the street came a cry, raucous and far-reaching as a peacock’s scream. The old night watchman chanted out, “Twelve o clock, ’n’ cloudy night, ’n’ Captain Pa-ris mur- dered!’ A clock, somewhere, boomed the hour. As the ECONMMICLOOOKS,(©) m