Old Ty was straightened up, and Goss giving the word, the shot was rolled into his wide mouth. Then the gunner, as grim and battered as his gun, took aim. Upon the instant all our men rushed to cover. Goss touched the match, and a crash far outdoing all the others stunned us. With the noise in my ears and the smoke in my eyes I knew not what had happened. But Whitestone cried aloud in joy. Rubbing my eyes clear, I looked across to see the effect of the shot. I saw only a heap of rubbish. Old Ty’s bolt had smote his enemy and blown up the caisson and the cannon with it. Then I looked at Old Ty to see how he bore his triumph, but his mighty barrel was split asunder and he was a cannon no longer, just pieces of old iron. Sitting on a log was some one with tears on his hard, brown face. It was Goss, the gunner, weeping over the end of his comrade. CHAPTER XIX. THE MAN FROM CLINTON. At one o’clock in the morning I went off duty, and at five minutes past one o’clock I had begun a very pleasant and healthful slumber. At eight o’clock I awoke, and found Whitestone sitting by a little fire cooking strips of bacon, some of which he was so kind as to give me. Whitestone’s face was puffed out in the manner of one who has news to tell, and I was quite willing that he should gratify himself by telling it to me. “What is it, Whitestone?” I asked. “Has the British army surrendered while I slept?” “No,” said Whitestone, “and it may not surrender after all.” “What!” I exclaimed. “It’s just as I say,” said Whitestone, lighting the inevitable pipe. “It may not surrender after all.” “What has happened?” Whitestone’s cheeks continued to swell with a sense of importance. “Clinton’s advancing with seven thousand men,” he said. “That’s nothing,” I said. “Clinton’s been advancing for weeks, and he never gets near us.” “But he is near us this time, sure enough,” said the sergeant very seriously. I was still unbelieving, and looked my unbelief. “It’s as I say,” resumed the sergeant; “there is no doubt about it. Just after daylight this morning some skirmishers took a messenger from Clinton, who bore dispatches announcing his arrival within a very short time. It seems that Clinton is much farther up the river than we supposed, and that his army is also much larger than all our reckonings made it. I guess that with re-enforcements he got over the fright we gave him.” This in truth sounded like a matter of moment. I asked Whitestone if he was sure of what he reported, and he said the news was all over the camp. I must confess that I felt as if it were a personal blow. I had looked upon the capture of Burgoyne as a certainty, but the arrival of Clinton with seven thousand fresh men would be sure to snatch the prize from us. It looked like a very jest of fate that we should lose our spoil after all our labors and battles. “What’s to be done, Whitestone?” I asked gloomily.