The Gift of the Sailor: The String of Pearls & Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street — page 148: what you’re looking at

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

holding a candle to the devil. The walls of that building were high, and it was not likely that any intruder from the outside could see what was going on, so Watson took no precaution. The well was reached, and Fogg cried to him— “Now—now—duick about it, lest she recovers.” Another moment and she would have been gone in her insensibility, but as if Fogg’s words were prophetic, she did recover, and clinging convulsively to Watson, she shrieked— “Mercy! mercy! Oh, have mercy upon me! Help! help!” “Ah, she recovers!” cried Fogg, “I was afraid of that. Throw her in. Throw her in, Watson.” “Confound her!” “Why don’t you throw her in?” “She clings to me like a vise. I cannot—Give me a knife, Fogg. You will find one in my coat pocket—a knife—a knife!” “Mercy! mercy! Have mercy upon me! No—no—no.—Help! Oh God! God!” “The knife! The knife, I say!” “Here, here,” cried Fogg, as he hastily took it from Watson’s pocket and opened it. “Here! Finish her, and quickly too, Watson!” The scene that followed is too horrible for description. The hands of the wretched victim were hacked from their hold by Watson, and in the course of another minute, with one last appalling shriek, down she went like a flash of lightning to the bottom of the well. “Gone!” said Watson. Another shriek and Fogg, even, stopped his ears, so appalling was that cry, coming as it did so strangely from the bottom of the well. 33 “Throw something upon her,” said Fogg. “Here’s a bric “Bah!” cried Watson, “bah! there’s no occasion to throw anything on her. She’|! soon get sick of such squealing.” Another shriek, mingled with a strange frothy cry, as though some one had managed to utter it under water, arose. The perspiration stood in large drops upon the face of Fogg. He seized the brick he had spoken of, and cast it into the well. All was still as the grave before it reached the bottom, and then he wiped his face and looked at Watson. “This is the worst job,” he said, “that ever we have had “Not a whit.—Brandy—give me a tumbler of brandy, Fogg. Some of our own particular, for I have something to say to you now, that a better opportunity than this for saying is not likely to occur.” “Come into my room then,” said Fogg, “and we can talk quietly—Do you think—that—that—” “What?” “That she is quite dead?” “What do I care.—Let her crawl out of that, if she can.” With a jerk of his thumb, Watson intimated that the well was the “that” he referred to, and then he followed Fogg into the house, whistling as he went the same lively air with which he had frequently solaced his feelings in the hearing of poor Tobias Ragg. Never had Fogg been in such a state of agitation, except once, and that was long ago, upon the occasion of his first crime. Then he had trembled as he now trembled, but the “Dull custom of iniquity” had effectually blunted soon the keen edge of his conscience, and he had for years carried on a career of infamy without any other feeling than exultation at his success.—Why then did he suffer now? Had the well in the garden never before received a victim? Was he getting alive to the excellence of youth and beauty?—-Oh no—no. Fogg was getting old. He could not stand what he once stood in the way of conscience. When he reached his room—that room in which he had held the conference with Todd, he sank into a chair with a deep groan. ‘“What’s the matter now?” cried Watson, who got insolent in proportion as Fogg’s physical powers appeared to be upon the wane. “Nothing, nothing.” “Nothing?—Well, I never knew anybody look so white with nothing the matter. Come, I want a drop of brandy; where is it?” “In that cupboard; I want some myself likewise. Get it out, Watson. You will find some glasses there.” Watson was not slow in obeying this order. The brandy was duly produced, and after Fogg had drank as much as would have produced intoxication in any one not so used to the ardent spirit as himself, he spoke more calmly, for it only acted upon him as a gentle sedative. “You wished to say something to me, Watson.” “Yes.” “What is it?” “T am tired, completely tired, Fogg.” “Tired? Then why don’t you retire to rest at once, Watson? There is, I am sure, nothing to keep you up now; I am going myself in a minute.” “You don’t understand me, or you won’t, which is much the same thing. I did not mean that I was tired of the day, but I am tired of CORniclooo S CO)