I remember saying "The long and short of it is,
you've made a fool of yourself. . . . Why on earth can't this fellow
get a move on?"--As though he had heard me, just then the driver
slewed about and shot us back a queer half-humorous glance through
the glass screen.
Jimmy, lolling crossways on one of the little let-down seats with his
leg across the other, caught the glance, sprang up and thrust his
head out at the window.
"Hallo!" said he. "Suffragettes? Dog-fight? . . . Pretty good riot,
anyhow,"--and the next moment he was out on the roadway. I craned up
for a look through the screen, and stepped out in his wake.
Some thirty yards ahead of us, close by the gates of the South London
College, a dense crowd blocked the thoroughfare. It was a curiously
quiet crowd, but it swayed violently under some pressure in the
centre, and broke as we watched, letting through a small body of
police with half a dozen men and youths in firm custody.
My wits gave a leap, and my heart sank on the instant. I stepped to
the taxi door and commanded Farrell to tumble out.
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