The Gift of the Sailor: The String of Pearls & Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street — page 157: what you’re looking at

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

portions of an old iron hoop from a barrel, did not look redolent of comforts. The rest of the apartments were what the auctioneers call en Suite, the said auctioneers having but a dreamy notion of what en suite means. But the appointments or disappointments of his attic were of little consequence to Sir Richard Blunt. It was the window that offered attractions to him. Softly opening it, he looked out, and found that there was a leaden gutter, with only the average amount of filth in it, the drain being, of course, stopped up by a dishclout® and a cracked flowerpot, which is perfectly according to custom in London. He saw enough at a glance, however, to convince him that there would be no difficulty whatever in getting to the attic of Todd’s house, and that fact once ascertained, he waited with exemplary and placid patience the return of Crotchet. Now, Sweeney Todd was, during much of that day, in what is denominated a brown study.* He could not make up his mind in what way he was to make up for the loss of the senses of Tobias. It was with him an equal choice of disagreeables. To have a boy, or not to have a boy, which to do became an anxious question. “A boy is a spy,” muttered Todd to himself—“a spy upon all my actions—a perpetual police-officer in a small way, constantly at my elbow—an alarum continually crying to me ‘Todd! Todd! beware!’ Curses on them all, and yet what a slave am I to this place without a lad; and, after all, when they do; become too troublesome and inquisitive, I can but dispose of them as I have disposed of him.” Todd patrolled his shop for some time, thus communing with himself; but as yet he could not make up his mind which to do.—A boy or not a boy?—that was the question. He remained in this unsatisfactory state of mind until sunset had passed away and the dim twilight was wrapping all things in obscurity. Then, without deciding upon either course, he suddenly, in a very hurried manner, shut up his shop, and closing the outer door carefully, he walked rapidly towards Bell Yard. He was going to Mrs. Lovett’s, whither we shall follow him at a more convenient opportunity, but just now we have Sir Richard Blunt’s enterprise to treat of. Todd had no sooner got fairly out of sight, than Mr. Crotchet emerged from the doorway in which he was concealed, and went a few paces down Fleet Street, towards the Temple. He soon met a man genteelly dressed, who seemed to be sauntering along in an idle fashion. “All’s right, Fletcher,” said Crotchet. “Oh, is it?” “Yes. Have you got that ’ere little article with you?” “The bugle? Oh, yes.” “Mind you blows it then, if you sees Todd come home, and no gammon.” “Trust to me, old fellow.” Without another word, Mr. Crotchet crossed over the road, and opened the shop-door of the shoemaker. Now the face of Mr. Crotchet was not the most engaging in the world, and when he looked in upon the shoemaker, that industrious workman felt a momentary pang of alarm, and particularly when Mr. Crotchet, imparting a horrible obliquity to his vision, said— “How is yer, old un?” “Sir?” said the shoemaker. “You couldn’t show a fellow the way up to Smith’s hattic, I supposes?” “Smith—Smith?—Oh, dear me, that’s the new lodger. I’Il call him down if you wait here.” “No occasion. I’ll toddle up, my tulip. He’s a relation 0’ mine, don’t you see the likeness atween us? We was considered the handsomest pair as was in London at one time, and it sticks to us now, I can tell you.” “If you wish, sir, to go up, instead of having Mr. Smith called down, of course, sir, you can, as you are an old friend. Allow me to light you, sir.” “Not the least occasion. Only tell me where it isn’t, and I’ll find out where it is, old chap.” “It’s the front attic.” “All’s right. Don’t be sich a hass as to be flaring away arter me with that ’ere double dip, I can find my way in worserer places than this here. All’s right—easy does it.” To the surprise of the shoemaker, his mysterious visitor opened the little door at the back of the shop, which led to the staircase, and in a moment disappeared up them. “Upon my life, this Mr. Smith,” thought the shoemaker, “seems to have some very strange connexions. He told me he knew nobody in London, and then here comes one of the ugliest fellows, I think, I ever saw in all my life, and claims acquaintance with him. What ought I to do?—Ought I to tell Mrs. W. of it?” At this moment Mrs. W. made her appearance from the mercer’s, with the ribbon that had tickled her feminine fancy—all smiles and sweetness. The heart of the shoemaker died within him, for well he knew what visitation he was likely to come in for, if anything connected with the lodger turned out wrong. “A-hem! a-hem! Well, my dear, have you got the ribbon?” “Oh yes, to be sure, and a love it is.” “Ah!—ah!” “What’s the matter?” “Nothing, my dove. I was only thinking that it wasn’t the ribbon that makes folks look lovely, but the person who wears it. You would look beautiful in any ribbon.” “Why; my dear, that may be very true, but still one ought to look as well as one can, you know, for the credit of one’s maker.” CORniclooo S CO)