"This the Editor's room, sir?" the thunderer shouted,
In the tone which so often a phalanx had routed;
While he nervously twiddled the "gamp" in his hand,
Which so often had scatter'd a mutinous band.
Now the Editor's views were as broad as the ocean
(His heart represented its wildest commotion),
In a moment he took in the whole situation
(And double distilled it in heart palpitation):
Then quickly arose with a dignified air,
And the wave of a hand and a nod at a chair;
Saying: "Yes, sir; it is, sir: be seated a minute,
The Editor's _in_, and I'll soon send him _in it_."
Then as quick as a flash of his own ready wit,
He opened the door and got outside of it.
He skipp'd with a bound o'er
The stairs to the ground floor,
And turning his feet bore
Straight on for the street door;
When--what could astound more--'
The spot he was bound for
Was guarded in force by that great butter tubber,
The patriot millionaire, Alderman Grubber:
A smart riding-whip impatiently cracking,
The food for his vengeance the only thing lacking.
"Is the Editor in?" said the voice that had thrilled,
A thousand times over the big Town Hall filled!
While the crack of the whip and the stamp of the feet,
Made the Editor wish himself safe in the street.
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