"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[pg 28] 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.