"Fiz-a-bang-g-g-g!"
The seconds ran, or hobbled forward, each to his man, both being down; but whether by concussion, recoil of their fusees, force of the liquor, or weakness of the knee-pans, was a hard fact to solve.
"Hurt, Wash.?"
"Not a bit!" cries the Adjutant, getting up.
"Hit, Dick?"
"No, sir!" shouts the Lieutenant; "good as new!"
"Set 'em up!"
"Take your places, gentlemen!" cry the seconds.
All ready. Wang! bang! go the pieces, and down ker-chug go both men again. The seconds rush forward, raise their men, all safe, load up again, take a drink, all right.
"Make ready, take aim, fire!"