The Gift of the Sailor: The String of Pearls & Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street — page 149: what you’re looking at

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

doing all the work, Fogg, while you—while you—” “Well—while I - “Pocket all the profit. Do you understand that? Now hark you. We will go partners, Fogg, not only in the present and the future, but in the past. I will have half of your hoarded up gains, or—” “Or what?” Mr. Watson made a peculiar movement, supposed to indicate the last kick of a culprit executed at the Old Bailey. * “You mean you will hang yourself,” said Fogg. “My dear Watson, pray do so as soon as you think proper. Don’t let me hinder you.” “Hark you, Fogg. You may be a fox, but I am a badger. I mean that I will hang you, and this is the way to do it. My wife—” “Your what?” “My wife,” cried Watson, “has, in writing, the full particulars of all your crimes. She don’t live far off, but still far enough to make it a puzzle for you to find her. If she don’t see me once in every forty-eight hours, she is to conclude something has happened to me, and then she is to go at once to Bow Street with the statement, and lay it before a magistrate. You understand. Now I have contrived, with what I got from you by fair means as well as by foul, and by robbing the patients besides, to save some money, and if you and I don’t agree, Mrs. Watson and I will start for New Zealand, or some such place, but—but, Fogg—” “Well?” “We will denounce you before we go.” “And what is to be the end of all this? The law has a long as well as a strong arm, Watson.” “T know it. You would say it might be long enough to strike me.” Fogg nodded. “Leave me to take care of that. But as you want to know the result of all this, it is just this. I want to have my share, and I will have it. Give me a couple of thousand down, and half for the future.” Fogg was silent for a moment or two, and then he said— “Too much, Watson, too much. I have not so much.” “Bah! At your banker’s now you have exactly eleven thousand two hundred sixty-seven pounds.” Fogg writhed. “You have been prying. Well, you shall have the two thousand.” “On account.” Fogg writhed again. “I say you shall have so much, Watson, and you shall keep the books, and have your clear half of all future proceeds. Is there anything else you have set your mind upon, because if you have, while we are talking about business, you may as well state it, you know.” “No, there’s nothing else—I am satisfied. All I have to add is, that you had better put your head into the fire than attempt to play any tricks with me. You understand?” “Perfectly.” Watson was not altogether satisfied. He would have been better pleased if Fogg had made more resistance. The easy compliance of such a man with anything that touched his pocket looked suspicious, and filled the mind of Watson with a thousand vague conjectures. Already—aye, even before he left Fogg’s room, Watson began to feel the uneasiness of his new position, and to pay dearly for the money he was to have. Even money may be given an exorbitant price for. When he was by himself, as he traversed the passage leading to his own sleeping room, Watson could not forbear looking cautiously around him at times, as though gaunt murder stalked behind him, and he fastened his bed-room door with more than his usual caution. The wish to sleep came not to him, and sitting down upon his bed-side he rested his chin upon his hand and said to himself in a low anxious shrinking kind of whisper— “What does Fogg mean to do?” Nor was the recent interview without its after effects upon the madhouse keeper himself. When the door closed upon Watson he shook his clenched hand in the direction he had taken, and muttered curses, “Not loud, but deep.” “The time will come,” he said, “Master Watson, and that quickly too, when I will let you see that I am still the master spirit. You shall be satisfied for the present, but your death-warrant is preparing. You will not live long to triumph over me by threats of what your low cunning can accomplish.” He rose and drank more raw brandy, after which, still muttering maledictions upon Watson, he returned to his bed-room, where, if he did not sleep, and if during the still hours of the night his brain was not too much vexed, he hoped to be able to concoct some scheme which should present him with a prospect of exemplary vengeance upon Watson. @9O9OO0OOOO CORniclooo S CO)