"Did you ever play cuckoo," asked Carfax, "at ten shillings a throw? It's not a bad game—if you're put to it for amusement."
Nobody replied; Gray's sunken, boyish face betrayed no interest; he continued to toss a tennis ball against the wall and catch it on the rebound.
Toward sundown the usual Alpine chill set in; a mist hung over the snow-edged cliffs; the rocks breathed steam under a foggy and battered moon.
CHAPTER III
CUCKOO!
Carfax, on duty, sat hunched up over the telephone, reporting to the fortress.
Gray came in, closed the wooden shutters, hung blankets over them, lighted an oil stove and then a candle. Flint took up the cards, looked at Gary, then flung them aside, muttering.
Nobody attempted to read; nobody touched the cards again. An orderly came in with soup. The meal was brief and perfectly silent.
Flint said casually, after the table had been cleared: "I haven't slept for a month. If I don't get some sleep I'll go queer. I warn you; that's all. I'm sorry to say it, but it's so."
"They're dirty beasts to keep us here like[pg 21] this," muttered Gary—"nine months of it, and not a shot."