Penny Dreadfuls, 1916 · page 50 of 400
Tom Anderson, Dare-Devil: A Young Virginian in the Revolution — page 50: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a page of running prose from Chapter V ("The Rifleman") of a Victorian penny dreadful. The text depicts a mysterious young stranger arriving on horseback at a blacksmith's forge in snowy weather, requesting urgent horseshoe repairs. As the blacksmith and his assistants work, the stranger's impatience becomes apparent, and when torchlight reveals his clothing—muddy riding-boots and a flash of scarlet military uniform beneath his cloak—his true identity as a soldier is exposed, suggesting a plot element involving a military figure in hiding or on urgent business.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
CHAPTER V THE RIFLEMAN SOMEBODY had pulled up under the snowy boughs of the old mulberry before the door. He slid from the saddle like a half-frozen man. Carr hurried out. The three about the forge heard him say he’d be “‘quick as a minute.” The stranger wore a long riding-cloak and a three-cornered hat. He was young and tall: that was all curious eyes could make out — in the red twilight and falling snow, “Tom, me b’y, grab a-hould av the bellows — his honor ’s in a bith av a hurry—an’ take a look at the baste whin I nail on her shoe.”’ “Who’s the man?” “Niver saw hair ner hide av him afore. In-tire sth-ranger. Take the tongs a bith av a minute.” Even in the few minutes Carr was at the anvil, the twi- light turned to darkness. “Fetch a torch,” said Pat in Choctaw to Sehoy. “Now, thin, Molly Bawn.” The mare whinnied softly and nuzzled an apple out of the smith’s pocket. ‘“‘Gintle as a kitten, now ain’t she? A swater craythur niver toted four feet!” The mare was long-barreled, clean-limbed, with a chest like a barn-door. Her coat was silver gray. But she’d been hard-ridden, and no mistake; she was muddy to her belly. ‘The Gray Goose is the right sort of horseflesh, yes. Don’t stop to rasp that toe, blacksmith.” ‘Half a minute, yer honor.” “Jove, man! I’ve no time to waste,” retorted the voice behind the cloak-collar. Torch in hand, Tom moved round the group. The wind whipped aside the long riding-cloak, showing the muddy “sherry-vallies” buttoned above the riding-boots— and a flash of scarlet. It was nothing less than a scarlet military ECONMMIEOOOKSa(e© m