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Updated: May 1, 2025
"Whiz-z-z-z" started the ball from the fingers of the coupeurs "click" dropped the ball into a black department of the board; "clink! tingle!" cried the money, changing hands; but not a word said Auburn Risque, standing like a stalagmite with his eyes upon ten francs. "Whiz-z-z!" "click!" "click!" "tingle!"
Not the drum, the bugle, or the fife, though these are thrilling, after their fashion; but the music of modern ordnance and projectile, the beautiful whistle of the minie-ball, the howl of shell that makes unearthly havoc with the air, the whiz-z-z of solid shot, the chirp of bullets, the scream of grape and canister, the yell of immense conical cylinders, that fall like redhot stoves and spout burning coals.
"Good morning," banged four-point-seven; "have you used Long Tom?" "Crack-k whiz-z-z," came the riving answer, "we have." "Whish-h patter, patter," chimed in a cloud-high shrapnel from Bulwan. It was half-past seven in the morning of November 7; the real bombardment, the terrific symphony, had begun. During the first movement the leading performer was Long Tom.
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