The British frigate, as if in defiance, flings out a flag from each topmast. Her big guns flash, but the balls fall short.
"Don't fire until I give the word," orders Captain Hull.
Now the Guerrière, drawing nearer and nearer, pours in a broadside.
"Shall we not fire, sir?" asks Lieutenant Morris.
"Not yet," is Hull's reply.
Another broadside tears through the rigging, wounding several men. The sailors are restless at their double-shotted guns.
Now the two frigates are fairly abreast, and within pistol shot of each other.
"Now, boys, do your duty. Fire!" shouts the gallant commander, at the top of his voice.
Hull is a short and stout man. As he leans over to give the order to fire, his breeches burst from hip to knee. The men roar with laughter. There is no time to waste, however, and so he finishes the battle in his laughable plight.
An officer, pointing to the captain, cries, "Hull her, boys! hull her!"