Carfax stirred heavily. "Shut up!" he said, with an effort. "The thing is to keep doing something--something--anything--except quarrelling." He picked up a tennis ball. "Come on, you funking brutes! I’ll teach you how to play cuckoo. Every man takes three tennis balls and stands in a corner of the room. I stand in the middle. Then you blow out the candle. Then I call ’cuckoo!’ in the dark and 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.