The Gift of the Sailor: The String of Pearls & Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street — page 132: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE THE 18? CONCLUSION It wants five minutes to nine, and Mrs. Lovett’s shop is filling with persons anxious to devour or to carry away one or more of the nine o’clock batch of savoury, delightful, gushing gravy pies. Many of Mrs. Lovett’s customers paid her in advance for the pies, in order that they might be quite sure of getting their orders fulfilled when the first batch should make its gracious appearance from the depths below. “Well, Jiggs,” said one of the legal fraternity to another. “How are you today, old fellow? What do you bring it in?” “Oh! I ain’t very blooming. The fact is the count and I, and a few others, made a night of it last evening, and, somehow or another, I don’t think whiskey and water, half-and-half, and tripe go together.” “T should wonder if they did.” “And so I’ve come for a pie just to settle my stomach; you see, I’m rather delicate.” “Ah! you are just like me, young man, there,” said an elderly personage; “I have a delicate stomach, and the slightest thing disagrees with me. A mere idea will make me quite ill.” “Will it, really?” “Yes; and my wife, she—” “Oh! bother your wife. It’s only five minutes to nine, don’t you see? What a crowd there is, to be sure. Mrs. Lovett, you charmer, I hope you have ordered enough pies to be made tonight. You see what a lot of customers you have.” “Oh! there will be plenty.” “That’s right. I say, don’t push so; you’ll be in time, I tell you; don’t be pushing and shoving in that sort of way—I’ve got ribs.” “And so have I. Last night, I didn’t get to bed at all, and my old woman is in a certain condition, you see, gentlemen, and won’t fancy anything but one of Lovett’s veal pies, so I’ve come all the way from Newington to get one for—” “Hold your row, will you? and don’t push.” “For to have the child marked as a pie as its—” “Behind there, I say; don’t be pushing a fellow as if it was half-price at a theatre.” Each moment added some new comers to the throng, and at last any strangers who had known nothing of the attractions of Mrs. Lovett’s pie-shop, and had walked down Bell Yard, would have been astonished at the throng of persons there assembled—a throng, that was each moment increasing in density, and becoming more and more urgent and clamorous. eo ee @o One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine! Yes, it is nine at last. It strikes by old St. Dunstan’s church clock, and in weaker Strains the chronometrical machine at the pie-shop echoes the sound. What excitement there is now to get at the pies when they shall come! Mrs. Lovett lets down the square, moveable platform that goes upon pulleys into the cellar; some machinery, which only requires a handle to be turned, brings up a hundred pies in a tray. These are eagerly seized by parties who have previously paid, and such a smacking of lips ensues as never was known. Down goes the platform for the next hundred, and a gentlemanly man says, “Let me work the handle, Mrs. Lovett, if you please; it’s too much for you, I’m sure.” “Sir, you are very kind, but I never allow anybody on this side of the counter but my own people, sir; I can turn the handle myself, sir, if you please, with the assistance of this girl. Keep your distance, sir: nobody wants your help.” How the waggish young lawyers’ clerks laughed as they smacked their lips, and sucked in the golopshious® gravy of the pies, which, by the by, appeared to be all delicious veal this time, and Mrs. Lovett worked the handle of the machine all the more vigorously, that she was a little angry with the officious stranger. What an unusual trouble it seemed to be to wind up those forthcoming hundred pies! How she toiled, and how the people waited; but at length there came up the savoury steam, and then the tops of the pies were visible. They came up upon a large tray, about six feet square, and the moment Mrs. Lovett ceased turning the handle, and let a catch fall that prevented the platform receding again, to the astonishment and terror of everyone, away flew all the pies, tray and all, across the counter, and a man, who was lying crouched down in an exceedingly flat state under the tray, sprang to his feet. Mrs. Lovett shrieked, as well she might, and then she stood trembling, and looking as pale as death itself. It was the doomed cook from the cellars, who had adopted this mode of escape. The throngs of persons in the shop looked petrified, and after Mrs. Lovett’s shriek, there was an awful stillness for about a minute, and then the young man who officiated as cook spoke. “Ladies and Gentlemen—I fear that what I am going to say will spoil your appetites; but the truth is beautiful at all times, and I have to state that Mrs. Lovett’s pies are made of human flesh!” eo oe @o How the throng of persons recoiled—what a roar of agony and dismay there was! How frightfully sick about forty lawyers’ clerks became all at once, and how they spat out the gelatinous clinging portions of the rich pies they had been devouring. “Good gracious!— CORniclooo S CO)