e middle of the
room. Gary blew it out and the place was in darkness.

They thought they heard Carfax moving cautiously, and presently he called,
"Cuckoo!" A storm of tennis balls rebounded from the walls; "Cuckoo!"
shouted Carfax, and the tennis balls rained all around him.

Once more he called; not a ball hit him; and he struck a match where he
was seated upon the floor.

There was some perfunctory laughter of a feverish sort; the candle was
relighted, tennis balls redistributed, and Carfax wrote down his winnings.

The next time, however, Gray, throwing low, caught him. Again the candle
was lighted, scores jotted down, a coin tossed, and Flint went in as
cuckoo.

It seemed almost impossible to miss a man so near, even in total darkness,
but Flint lasted three rounds and was hit, finally, a stinging smack on
the ear. And then Gary went in.

It was hot work, but they kept at it feverishly, grimly, as though their
very sanity depended upon the violence of their diversion. They threw the
balls hard, viciously hard. A sort of silent ferocity seemed to seize
them. A chance hit cut the skin over Flint's cheekbone, and when the
candle was lighted, one side of his face was bright with blood.

Early in the proceedings somebody had disinterred brandy and Schnapps from
under a bunk. The room had become close; they all were sweating.

Carfax emptied his iced glass, still breathing hard, tossed a shilling and
sent in Gary as cuckoo.

Flint, who never could stand spirits, started unsteadily for the candle,
but could not seem to blow it out. He stood swaying and balancing on his
heels, puffing out his smooth, boyish cheeks and blowing at hazard.

"You're drunk," said Gray, thickly; but he was as flushed as the boy he
addressed, only steadier of leg.

"What's that?" retorted Flint, jerking his shoulders around and gazing at
Gray out of glassy eyes.

"Blow out that candle," said Gary heavily, "or I'll shoot it out! Do you
get that?"

"Shoot!" repeated Flint, staring vaguely into Gary's bloodshot eyes;
"_you_ shoot, you old slacker----"

"Shut up and play the game!" cut in Carfax, a menacing roar rising in his
voice. "You're all slackers--and rotters, too. Play the game! Keep
playing--hard!--or you'll go clean off your fool nuts!"

Gary walked heavily over and knocked the tennis balls out of Flint's
hands.

"There's a better game than that," he said, his articulation very thick;
"but it takes nerve--if you've got it