Barbarians. Chambers Robert William

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СКАЧАТЬ dirty beasts to keep us here like this," muttered Gary—"nine months of it, and not a shot."

      "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."

      Flint's face had a white, strained expression; he began to walk about, saying aloud to himself: "If I could only sleep. That's the idea—sleep it off, and wake up somewhere else. It's the silence, or the voices—I don't know which. You dollar-crazy Yankees and ignorant Provincials don't realize what a cuckoo is. You've no traditions, anyway—no past, nothing to care for–"

      "Listen to 'Arry!" retorted Gary—"'Arry and his cuckoo!"

      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.

      "Blow out that candle," said Gary heavily, "or I'll shoot it out! Do you get that?"

      "Shoot!" repeated Flint, staring vaguely into Gary's bloodshot eyes; "you shoot, you old slacker–"

      "Shut up and play the game!" cut in Carfax, a menacing roar rising in his voice. "You're all slackers—and rotters, too. Play the game! Keep playing—hard!—or you'll go clean off your fool nuts!"

      Gary walked heavily over and knocked the tennis balls out of Flint's hands.

      "There's a better game than that," he said, his articulation very thick; "but it takes nerve—if you've got it, you spindle-legged little cockney!"

      Flint struck at him aimlessly. "I've got nerve," he muttered, "plenty of nerve, old top! What d'you want? I'm your man; I'll go you—eh, what?"

      "Go on with the game, I tell you!" bawled Carfax.

      Gary swung around: "Wait till I explain–"

      "No, don't wait! Keep going! Keep playing! Keep doing something, for God's sake!"

      "Will you wait!" shouted Gary. "I want to tell you–"

      Carfax made a hopeless gesture: "It's talk that will do the trick for us all–"

      "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 ringed him; the risky hazard of the affair cleared their sick minds to comprehension.

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