“Old Ty got it that time,” said Whitestone. “That was a cruel blow.”
He spoke truth, and a less seasoned veteran than Old Ty would have been crushed by it. There was a look of deep concern on Goss’s face as he ran his hand over the huge rent in Old Ty’s side. Then his face brightened a bit, and I concluded the veteran was good for more hard blows.
The blow must have had some effect upon Old Ty’s voice or temper. At any rate, when he replied his roar was hoarser and angrier. A cry arose from the British ranks, and I saw them taking away a body. Old Ty had tasted blood. But the British cannon was as formidable as ever.
“The chances look a bit against Old Ty,” commented Whitestone, and I had to confess to myself, although with reluctance, that it was so.
Goss was very slow in his preparations for the fourth shot. He had the men to steady Old Ty, and he made a slight change in the elevation. Again both spoke at the same time, and Old Ty groaned aloud as the mass of British iron tore along his barrel, ripping out a gap deeper and longer than any other. His own bolt tore off one of the Briton’s wheels.
“The Englishman’s on one leg,” said Whitestone, “but Old Ty’s got it next to the heart. Chances two to one in favor of the Englishman.”
I sighed. Poor Old Ty! I could not bear to see the veteran beaten. Goss’s hard, dark face showed grief. He examined Old Ty with care and fumbled about him.
“What is he doing?” I asked of Whitestone, who lay nearer the gun.
“I think he’s trying to see if Old Ty will stand another shot,” he said. “He’s got some big rips in the barrel, and he may leave in all directions when the powder explodes.”
Old Ty in truth was ragged and torn like a veteran in his last fight. The Briton had lost one wheel and was propped up on the side, but his black muzzle looked triumphant across the way.