Presently we saw a twinkle, as of a powder match, and then a great flash. The ball shrieked through the air, and with a shiver that could not be checked we waited for it to strike. True to its predecessors, it followed nearly the same course and smashed against a stone near us. One of our men was struck by the rebounding of fragments, of iron or stone, and severely wounded. It was too dark to see well, but his groans spoke for him. Whitestone and I took hold of him and carried him back for treatment. While we were gone, one man was slain and another wounded in the same way. In the darkness that British cannon had become a live thing and was stinging us. Some of our best sharpshooters were chosen to slay the cannoneers, but they could aim only by the flash of the gun, and the men loading it had the woods to protect them. The bullets were wasted, and the troublesome hornet stung again and again. We were perplexed. Our pride as well as our safety was concerned. The idea came to me at last. “To fight fire with fire is an old saying,” I remarked to Whitestone. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Why, we must have a cannon too,” I said. He understood at once, for Whitestone is not a dull man. He volunteered to get the cannon and I went along with him to help. We presented our claim with such urgency and eloquence that the artillery officer to whom we went was impressed. Also he was near enough to see how damaging and dangerous the British cannon had become. “You can have Old Ty,” he said, “and be sure you make good use of him.” I did not understand, but Whitestone did. He knew Old Ty. He explained that Old Ty, which was short for “Old Ticonderoga,” was a twenty-four pounder taken at Ticonderoga early in the war by Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain Boys. It had done so much service and in so many campaigns that the gunners had affectionately nicknamed the veteran Old Ty in memory of the fortress in which he had been taken. “I’ve seen Old Ty,” said Whitestone. “He’s been battered about a good lot, but he’s got a mighty bad bark and a worse bite.” In a few minutes the groaning of wheels and the shout of the driver to the horses announced the approach of Old Ty. I stood aside with respect while the gun passed, and a grim and fierce old veteran he was, full worthy the respect of a youngster such as I felt myself to be. Old Ty was of very dark metal, and there were many scars upon him where he had received the blows of enemies of a like caliber. A wheel which had been struck by a ball in the heat of action was bent a trifle to one side, and Old Ty rolled along as if he were a little lame and didn’t mind it. His big black muzzle grinned at me as if he were proud of his scars, and felt good for many more. Just behind the gun walked a man as ugly and battered as Old Ty himself. “That’s Goss, the gunner,” said Whitestone. “He’s been with Old Ty all through the war, and loves him better than his wife.”