When the tumbril exploded, the Prussians could be heard to cheer, and
they turned to and fired every iron spout they owned. Long Tom worked
all day.
They got into a corner where the guns of the battery could not hit
them or him, and there was his long muzzle looking towards the sky, and
sending half a hundredweight of iron up into the clouds, and plunging
down a mile off into the French lines.
And, at every shot, the man on horseback made signals to let the gunners
know where the shot fell.
At last, about four in the afternoon, they threw a forty-eight-pound
shot slap into the commander-in-chief's tent, a mile and a half behind
trenches.
Down comes a glittering aide-de-camp as hard as he can gallop.
"Colonel Dujardin, what are you about, sir? YOUR BASTION has thrown a
round shot into the commander-in-chief's tent."
The colonel did not appear so staggered as the aide-de-camp expected.
"Ah, indeed!" said he quietly. "I observed they were trying distances."
"Must not happen again, colonel. You must drive them from the gun."
"How?"
"Why, where is the difficulty?"
"If you will do me the honor to step into the battery, I will show you,"
said the colonel.
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