On went the fierce and ugly pair like two who knew their duty and loved it. The night, as usual after the first rush of darkness, had begun to brighten a bit. We could see the British cannon, a long, ugly piece, without waiting for its flash; yet its gunners were protected so well by fresh-felled trees and a swell of the earth that our sharpshooters could not pick them off. They were in good position, and nothing lighter than Old Ty could drive them out of it. The British saw what we were about and sought to check us. They fired more rapidly, and a cannon ball smashed one of the horses hitched to Old Ty almost to a pulp. But Goss sprang forward, seized one wheel, and threw the veteran into place. 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. 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.