Where I lay I could see the muzzles of both cannon threatening each other. The Briton was slower than before, as if he wished to be sure. Goss continued to pat his comrade by way of stirring up his spirit. That did not seem to me to be needed, for Old Ty was the very fellow I would have chosen for such a furious contention as this.
The two champions spoke at the same instant, and the roar of them was so great that for the moment I thought I would be struck deaf. A great cloud of smoke enveloped either cannon, but when it raised both sides cheered.
Old Ty had received a fresh blow on his lame wheel, and careened a little farther to one side, but the Briton was hit the harder of the two. His axle had been battered by Old Ty’s ball, and the British were as busy as bees propping him up for the third raid.
“Rather evenly matched,” grunted Whitestone, “and both full of grit. I think we shall have some very pretty sport here.”
I was of Whitestone’s opinion.
I could see Goss frowning. He did not like the wound Old Ty had received, and stroked the lame wheel. “Steady, old partner,” I heard him say. “We’ll beat ’em yet.”
All at once I noticed that the lights along the line had increased, and some thousands were looking on at the battle of the two giants.
“Old Ty must win!” I said to Whitestone. “We can’t let him lose.”
“I don’t know,” said Whitestone, shaking his head. “A battle’s never over till the last shot’s fired.”
The Briton was first, and it was well that we were sheltered. The ball glanced along Old Ty’s barrel, making a long rip in the iron, and bounded over our heads and across the hill.