Last night, an alarming riot took place in Printing-house Square. About five hundred hotel-keepers—represented by their signs—attacked the Times' office.
The Red Bull swore "he'd toss the whole bilin of 'em for a pint. He ought to know something of rumpsteaks; and 5s. a head warn't too much for 'em."
The Angel wondered that any gentlemen who was a gent could object to wax-candles to go to bed with. The Angel abominated compo; hoping she knew what real light was.
The Goat-in-Boots said kids, other ways children, over nine, ought to be charged for as full-growd. Some little gals was women at eight.
The Cock-and-Bottle was above trumpeting anything. But how could any gent expect a pint of port under three-and-six?
At least a dozen Bears—growling their loudest—said, seeing the expense at which they sat, swore they couldn't afford a sandwich under a shilling.
The Adam-and-Eve never heard of such a thing as "a dressing-room." Wondered what next?
At this time the increased crowd of Red Lions, White Bulls, Black Horses, began to roar and bellow, and snort and neigh and kick in the most appalling style. The hubbub becoming unendurable, the Editor—after due warning given by the publisher—threw up the window in the face of the mob, and fired a leading article over their heads. Upon this, the crowd quietly separated.