"There's a bird of sorts yelling like hell below," he said to the card players.
Carfax ran over his cards, rejected three, and nodded. "Well, let him yell," he said.
"What is it, a Boche dicky-bird insulting you?" asked Gary, in his Yankee drawl.
Flint, declining to draw cards, got up and went out into the sunshine. When he returned to the table, he said: "It's a cuckoo.... I wish to God I were out of this," he added.
They continued to play for a while without apparent interest. Each man had won his comrades' money too many times to care when Carfax added up debit and credit and wrote down each man's score. In nine months, alternately beggaring one another, they had now, it appeared, broken about even.
Gary, an American in British uniform, twitched a newspaper toward himself, slouched in his chair, and continued to read for a while. The paper was French and two weeks old; he jerked it about irritably.
Gray, resting his elbows on his knees,