Old Ty had a position much like that of his antagonist, and Goss, stroking his iron comrade like one who pets an old friend, began to seek the range, and take very long and careful looks at the enemy. Lights along the line of either army flared up, and many looked on.
“Lie flat on the ground here,” said Whitestone to me. “This is going to be a pitched battle between the big guns, and you want to look out.”
I adopted Whitestone’s advice, thinking it very good. Old Ty’s big black muzzle grinned threateningly across at his antagonist, as if he longed to show his teeth, but waited the word and hand of his comrade.
“There goes the bark of the other!” cried Whitestone.
The bright blaze sprang up, the British cannon roared, and hurled his shot. The mass of iron swept over Old Ty and buried itself in the hillside.
“Much bark, but no bite,” said Whitestone.
Old Ty, black and defiant, was yet silent. Goss was not a man who hurried himself or his comrade. We waited, breathless. Suddenly Goss leaned over and touched the match.
Old Ty spoke in the hoarse, roaring voice that indicates much wear. One of the felled trees in the British position was shattered, and the ball bounded to the right and was lost to sight.
“A little bite,” said Whitestone, “but not deep enough.”
Old Ty smoked and grew blacker, as if he were not satisfied with himself. They swabbed out his mouth and filled it with iron again.