“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. “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. The British fired again and then shouted in triumph. Old Ty, too, had lost a wheel, which the shot had pounded into old iron. “Old Ty is near his end,” said Whitestone. “One leg gone and holes in his body as big as my hat; that’s too much!”