Below in the Alsatian valley spring had already started the fruit buds, and a delicate green edged the lower snow line. The lieutenant spoke of it wistfully; nobody paid any attention; he rose presently and went outdoors to the edge of the precipice--not too near, for fear he might be tempted to jump out through the sunshine, down into that inviting world of promise below. Far underneath him--very far down in the valley--a cuckoo called. Out of the depths floated the elfin halloo, the gaily malicious challenge of spring herself, shouted up melodiously from the plains of Alsace--_Cuckoo!_ _Cuckoo!_ _Cuckoo!_--You poor, sullen, frozen foreigner up there on the snowy rocks!--_Cuckoo!_ _Cuckoo!_ _Cuckoo!_ The lieutenant of Yukon infantry, whose name was Gray, came back into the room. "There’s a bird of sorts yelling like hell below," he said to the card players. Carfax ran over his cards, rejected three, and nodded. "Well, let him yell," he said. "What is it, a Boche dicky-bird insulting you?" asked Gary, in his Yankee drawl. Flint, declining to draw cards, got up and went out into the sunshine. When he returned to the table, he said: "It’s a cuckoo.... I wish to God I were out of this," he added. They continued to play for a while without apparent interest. Each man had won his comrades’ money too many times to care when Carfax added up debit and credit and wrote down each man’s score. In nine months, alternately beggaring one another, they had now, it appeared, broken about even. Gary, an American in British uniform, twitched a newspaper toward himself, slouched in his chair, and continued to read for a while. The paper was French and two weeks old; he jerked it about irritably. Gray, resting his elbows on his knees, sat gazing vacantly out of the narrow window. For a smart officer he had grown slovenly. "If there was any trout fishing to be had," he began; but Flint laughed scornfully. "What are you laughing at? There must be trout in the valley down there where that bird is," insisted Gray, reddening. "Yes, and there are cows and chickens and houses and women. What of it?" Gary, in his faded service uniform of a captain, scowled over his newspaper. "It’s bad enough to be here," he said heavily; "so don’t let’s talk about it. Quit disputing." Flint ignored the order. "If there was anything sportin’ to do----" "Oh, shut up," muttered Carfax. "Do you expect sport on a hog-back?"