Penny Dreadfuls, 1916 · page 359 of 400
Tom Anderson, Dare-Devil: A Young Virginian in the Revolution — page 359: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a page of running prose from a Victorian penny dreadful, numbered 339 and titled "Sentenced." The passage depicts a dramatic scene in Bridgetown where a character named Tom, observing military activity from a yacht, suddenly dives into the water and rushes ashore on horseback through a crowded, hostile street. He encounters a courier who informs him that someone named Dick Knatchbull has been stabbed and is scheduled for execution by court martial at sundown. The text emphasizes melodramatic action—swimming, riding, dust, bayonets, and urgent dialogue—typical of sensational Victorian serial fiction.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
SENTENCED 339 The scream of a fife came gustily across the Bay. A de- tachment of grenadiers came in sight. Most of the popula- tion of Bridgetown was wedging itself into the principal street. A queer agitation stirred more than one of those who stared from the yacht’s deck. It was easy to see that this was no holiday crowd. A grow] broke from the popu- lace. [hey pressed close to the bayonets. They hissed and howled. ‘Tom caught up somebody’s binoculars. Next instant there was a splash. Tom’s coat was on the taffrail, and lom was in the water, swimming with might and main. Directly he was alongside a rowboat. An oar was held out to him. Now he was in the boat, handling the oar. Three minutes later his feet were on the wharf. Running heavily in his soaked clothes, he hailed the Marquis’s groom. Ihe man awaited his master with a couple of horses. At a word the groom was holding the stirrup for his master’s friend. The drenched fellow was in the saddle and off. Skirting the throng, spurring up a deserted side street, he emerged at a distant point on the water-front. Here an unfinished warehouse stretched from the quay to the main street. The carpenters on the roof heard the thunder of flying hoofs over the endless floor of the build- ing, and a dripping, bareheaded, disheveled fellow gal- loped out of the door. He had almost flanked that cloud of dust whence came the clamor of drum and fife, the flash of bayonets. ‘There was Tulloch!— at the head of the column. At the risk of trampling somebody, [om pressed his horse close to that of a mounted courier from the bar- racks. The courier did not know the queer-looking object that called him by name; for the dust was now plastered over [om’s clothes and features. “Oh, I say! Is it you, Carabas!” “Tn God’s name, what’s the matter?”’ A grim look settled over the boyish face of the courier. “Dick Knatchbull’s dying! He knifed him!” with a nod toward the bristling bayonets. “Tried by court martial. Going out to the barracks with him now. Execution at sundown. On the parade-ground. Good-bye.” CONRNICOOO® SS (CO) im