In Wellington Street my brother met a couple of sturdy roughs who
had just been rushed out of Fleet Street with still-wet newspapers and
staring placards.  "Dreadful catastrophe!" they bawled one to the
other down Wellington Street.  "Fighting at Weybridge!  Full
description!  Repulse of the Martians! London in Danger!"  He had to
give threepence for a copy of that paper.