"We want Ettes, not Ists," said Tim.
At length their attention was attracted by what looked like a gigantic but listless football scrimmage, some four or five hundred strong, slowly and aimlessly circling about upon a wide grassy space. It was composed mainly of anæmic youths smoking cigarettes. But there was no sign of the ball. All that indicated the centre of activity of this peculiar game was the sound of some twenty or thirty male voices uplifted in song—Timothy explained that the melody was "Let's All Go Down the Strand and Have a Banana"—somewhere about the middle. A couple of impassive policemen appeared to be acting as referees.
Timothy addressed a citizen of London who was standing by.
"What is going on inside here?" he asked.
"Sufferingettes, sir," responded the citizen affably. "The police won't let 'em 'old no meetings now,—not off no waggin, that is,—so they 'as to just talk to people, standin' about, friendly like, same as me and you. There's a couple of them in there just now"—indicating the scrimmage with his pipe. "You'll 'ear 'em arguin', now and then."
He was right. Presently there was a lull among the choristers. A high-pitched girlish voice became audible, trickling through the press.
"And I ask all of you, if that isn't woman's work, what is?"
The speaker paused defiantly for a reply. It came, at once:—
"Washin', ducky!"
The crowd dissolved into happy laughter, and the choir struck up "Meet Me in Dreamland Tonight."