An anemic elderly woman, who looked as if she might have as much
maternal affection as an incubator, sized up a broad-shouldered cockney
who was idly looking into a window on the Strand in London, and in a
rasping voice said to him:
“My good man, why aren’t you in the trenches? Aren’t you willing to do
anything for your country?”
Turning around slowly, he looked at her a second and replied
contemptuously:
“Move on, you slacker! Where’s your war-baby?”