LITMIR.BIZ

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you try to hit me, aiming by the sound of my voice. Every time I'm hit I pay ten shillings to the pool, take my place in a corner, and have a shot at the next man, chosen by lot. And if you throw three balls apiece and nobody hits me, then you each pay ten shillings to me and I'm cuckoo for another round."

      "We aim at random?" inquired Gray, mildly interested.

      "Certainly. It must be played in pitch darkness. When I call out cuckoo, you take a shot at where you think I am. If you all miss, you all pay. If I'm hit, I pay."

      Gary chose three tennis balls and retired to a corner of the room; Gray and Flint, urged into action, took three each, unwillingly.

      "Blow out the candle," said Carfax, who had walked into the 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, you spindle-legged little cockney!"

      Flint struck at him aimlessly. "I've got nerve," he muttered, "plenty of nerve, old top! What d'you want? I'm your man; I'll go you—eh, what?"

      "Go on with the game, I tell you!" bawled Carfax.

      Gary swung around: "Wait till I explain–"

      "No, don't wait! Keep going! Keep playing! Keep doing something, for God's sake!"

      "Will you wait!" shouted Gary. "I want to tell you–"

      Carfax made a hopeless gesture: "It's talk that will do the trick for us all–"

      "I want to tell you–"

      Carfax shrugged, emptied his full glass with a gesture of finality.

      "Then talk, damn you! And we'll all be at each other's throats before morning."

      Gary got Gray by the elbow: "Reggie, it's this way. We flip up for cuckoo. Whoever gets stuck takes a shot apiece from our automatics in the legs—eh, what?"

      "It's perfectly agreeable to me," assented Gray, in the mincing, elaborate voice characteristic of him when drunk.

      Flint wagged his head. "It's a sportin' game. I'm in," he said.

      Gary looked at Carfax. "A shot in the dark at a man's legs. And if he gets his—it will be Blighty in exchange for hell."

      Carfax, sullen with liquor, shoved his big hand into his pocket, produced a shilling, and tossed it.

      A brighter flush stained the faces which ringed him; the risky hazard of the affair cleared their sick minds to comprehension.

      Tails turned uppermost; Flint and Gary were eliminated. It lay between Carfax and Gray, and the older man won.

      "Mind you fire low," said the young fellow, with an excited laugh, and walked into the middle of the room.

      Gary blew out the candle. Presently from somewhere in the intense darkness Gray called "Cuckoo!" and instantly a slanting red flash lashed out through the gloom. And, when the deafening echo had nearly ceased: "Cuckoo!"

      Another pistol crashed. And after a swimming interval they heard him moving. "Cuckoo!" he called; a level flame stabbed the dark; something fell, thudding through the staccato uproar of the explosion. At the same moment the outer door opened on the crack and Carfax's orderly peeped in.

      Carfax struck a match with shaky fingers; the candle guttered, sank, flared on Flint, who was laughing without a sound. "Got the beggar, by God!" he whispered—"through the head! Look at him. Look at Reggie Gray! Tried for his head and got him–"

      He reeled back, chuckling foolishly, and levelled at Carfax. "Now I'll get you!" he simpered, and shot him through the face.

      As Carfax pitched forward, Gary fired.

      "Missed me, by God!" laughed Flint. "Shoot? Hell, yes. I'll show you how to shoot–"

      He struck the lighted candle with his left hand and laughed again in the thick darkness.

      "Shoot? I'll show you how to shoot, you old slacker–"

      Gary fired.

      After a silence Flint giggled in the choking darkness as the door opened cautiously again, and shot at the terrified orderly.

      "I'm a cockney, am I? And you don't think much of the Devon cuckoos, do you? Now I'll show you that I understand all kinds of cuckoos–"

      Both flashes split the obscurity at the same moment. Flint fell back against the wall and slid down to the floor. The outer door began to open again cautiously.

      But the orderly, half dressed, remained knee-deep in the snow by the doorway.

      After a long interval Gary struck a match, then went over and lit the candle. And, as he turned, Flint fired from where he lay on the floor and Gary swung heavily on one heel, took two uncertain steps. Then his pistol fell clattering; he sank to his knees and collapsed face downward on the stones.

      Flint, still lying where he had fallen, partly upright, against the wall, began to laugh, and died a few moments later, the wind from the slowly opening door stirring his fair hair and extinguishing the candle.

      And at last, through the opened door crept Carfax's orderly; peered into the darkness within, shivering in his unbuttoned tunic, his boots wet with snow.

      Dawn already whitened the east; and up out of the ghastly fog edging the German Empire, silhouetted, monstrous, against the daybreak, soared a Lämmergeyer, beating the livid void with enormous, unclean wings.

      The orderly heard its scream, shrank, cowering, against the door frame as the huge bird's ferocious red and yellow eyes blazed level with his.

      Suddenly, above the clamor of the Lämmergeyer, the shrill bell of the telephone began to ring.

      The

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