Penny Dreadfuls, 1916 · page 347 of 400
Tom Anderson, Dare-Devil: A Young Virginian in the Revolution — page 347: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# What This Page Contains This is a page of running prose from a Victorian penny dreadful titled "An Indian Secret" (page 327). The text depicts a tense dramatic scene in which characters—a surgeon named Dr. Pomeroy, a Scotsman, and others—await someone named Dick Knatchbull for what appears to be a duel. As dawn breaks, a messenger (described as a "naked Carib") bursts from the bushes and delivers a fragment of paper to the surgeon, who begins to read it aloud. The passage emphasizes suspense and mounting tension through vivid sensory details and dialogue.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
AN INDIAN SECRET 327 the snarl of the surf on the reef far below. De la Jonquiére was as collected as some of his sort that — years after — were jostled through the streets of Paris in the tumbril. It was a superb sort, you know. “By the way,” jerked out Dr. Pomeroy, “ Knatchbull’s place is not more than a mile. Eh?” “No; right over there.”’ Another interminable interval, and the scream of a peacock pierced the dangling vapors. The familiar sound carried Tom back to Oxheart. Why, this minute the pea- fowls on the barn were “’larmin’ fer day,” as Dilsey used to say. Next instant sea and sky were whelmed in a fury of yellow light. Oh, the terrible tension! ‘Tom knew that every breath he drew was a wordless prayer. The surgeon closed his watch with a sound like the cocking of a pistol. | “My God, Mac! — where is he?” The Scotchman turned and pointed to the east. He had held a feather to a man’s lips, dropped it, and turned off looking less grim than he did now. Across the Atlantic lay a trail of fire. The sun! ‘“Jacta est alea,’ muttered the English surgeon, thickly. ‘““Time’s up! — Say, where the devil’s Tulloch?” “Lord knows. But there’ll be nae duel the day. I’m off to breakfast, mon.” Pomeroy’s jaws were set; his face gray. Macglashan re- buttoned his surtout. De la Jonquiére and Tom stared with white faces. Dick Knatchbull recreant? Destroyed? There was a sound of something scrambling through the thicket with headlong rushes. A naked Carib burst out of the bushes, tearing through them as l’om had once seen _ a snake-bitten colt rip open a thicket. He was panting, covered with sweat, bleeding from scratches. He had eyes like a crazy fox’s. Both his arms were waving above his head; and he clutched a fragment of paper. He thrust it into Dr. Pomeroy’s fingers. The shamed blood mounted tardily to the lank cheek of the surgeon as he fell upon it. Then he read, aloud: — CORNICOO® SS) (CO) im