"There'll be a few shots if things don't change," remarked Flint in a colourless voice. "I'm getting wrong in my head. I can feel it."
Carfax turned from the switchboard with a forced laugh: "Thinking of shooting up the camp?"
"That or myself," replied Flint in a quiet voice; "ever since that cuckoo called I've felt queer."
Gary, brooding in his soiled tunic collar, began to mutter presently: "I once knew a man in a lighthouse down in Florida who couldn't stand it after a bit and jumped off."
"Oh, we've heard that twenty times," interrupted Carfax wearily.
Gray said: "What a jump!—I mean down into Alsace below——"
"You're all going dotty!" snapped Carfax. "Shut up or you'll be doing it—some of you."
"I can't sleep. That's where I'm getting queer," insisted Flint. "If I could get a few hours' sleep now——"
"I wish to God the Boches could reach you with a big gun. That would put you to sleep, all right!" said Gray.
"This war is likely to end before any of us see a Fritz," said Carfax. "I could stand it, too, except being up here with such"—his voice dwindled to a mutter, but it sounded to Gary as though he had used the word "rotters."