The Gift of the Sailor: The String of Pearls & Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street — page 165: what you’re looking at

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

CHAPTER XLII. THE SHOEMAKER’S WIFE IS INQUISITIVE. TITLE AS PRINTED: Crotchet Astonishes Mr. Todd. The key was soon procured, but it will be recollected that Crotchet had fastened the door rather too securely for it to be opened by any such ordinary implement as a key, and so disappointment was the portion of the shoemaker’s wife. “Don’t you think, my love,” said the shoemaker, “that it will be just as well to leave this affair until the morning, before taking any further notice of it?” “And pray, then, am I to sleep all night, if I don’t know the rights of it, I should like to know? Perhaps, if you can tell me that, you are a little wiser than I think you. Marry, come up.” ® “Oh, well, I only—” “You only! Then only don’t. That’s the only favour I ask of you, sir, is to only don’t.” What extraordinary favour this was, the lady did not condescend to explain any more particulars, but it was quite enough for the husband to understand that a storm was brewing, and to become humble and submissive accordingly. “Well, my dear, I’m sure I only wish you to do just what you like; that’s all, my dear, I’m sure.” “Very good.” After this, she made the most vigorous efforts to get into the attic, and if any one had been there—which at that juncture there was not—they might truly have asked “Who’s that knocking at the door?” Finding that all her efforts were ineffectual, she took to peeping through the key-hole, but nothing was to be seen; and then, for the first time, the idea struck her that there was something supernatural about the business, and in a few moments this notion gained sufficient strength to engender some lively apprehensions. “T tell you what,” she said to her husband, “if you don’t fetch a constable at once, and have the door opened, and see all about, I’m afraid—indeed I’m quite sure—I shall be very ill.” “Oh, dear—oh, dear.” “Tt’s of no use your standing here and saying ‘Oh, dear,’ like a great stupid as you are—always was and always will be. Go for a constable, at once.” “A constable?” “Yes. There’s Mr. Otton, the beadle of St. Dunstan’s, lives opposite, as you well know, and he’s a constable. Run over the way and fetch him, this minute.” She began hastily to descend the stairs, and the shoemaker followed her, remonstrating, for the idea of fetching a constable, and making him and his house the talk of the whole neighbourhood, was by no means a proposition that met with his approval. The lady was positive, however, and Mr. Otton, the beadle of St. Dunstan’s, was brought from over the way, and the case stated to him at length. “Conwulsions!” exclaimed Otton, “what can I do?” “Burst open the door,” said the lady. “Burst a door open, mum! What is you a-thinking on? Why, that’s contrary to Habus Corpus, mum, and all that sort of thing. Conwulsions, mum! you mustn’t do it. But I tell you what, now, will be the thing.” Here Mr. Otton put his finger to the side of his nose, and looked so cunning that you would hardly have believed it possible. “What?—what?” “Why, suppose, mum, we ask Mr. Todd, next door, to give us leave to go up into his attic, and get out at the window and look in at yours, mum?” “That’ll do. Run in—” “Me!” cried the shoemaker. “Oh, M—Mr. Todd is a strange man—a very strange man—not at all a neighbourly sort of man, and I don’t like to go to him.—I won’t go, that’s flat—unless, my love, you particularly wish it.” “Conwulsions!” cried the beadle. “Ain’t I a-going with you? Ain’t I a constabullary force, I should like to know? Conwulsions! What is yer afeard on? Come on. Lor’, what’s the meaning o’ that, I wonders, now; I should just like to take that ’ere fellow up. Whoever heard of a horn being blowed at such a rate, in the middle o’ Fleet Street, afore, unless it was somethin’ as consarned the parish? Conwulsions! it’s contrary to Habus Corpus, it is. Is me a constabullary force, or is me not?” This was the bugle sound which warned Sir Richard Blunt and his friend Crotchet that Sweeney Todd had returned to his shop; and, in fact, while this very conversation was going on at the shoemaker’s, Todd had lit the lamp in his shop, and actually opened it for business again, as the evening was by no means very far advanced. Mr. Otton went to the door, and looked about for the audacious bugle player, but he was not to be seen; so he returned to the back parlour of the shoemaker, uttering his favourite expletive of “Conwulsions” very frequently. “Now, if you is ready,” he said, “I is; so let’s come at once, and speak to Mr. Todd. He may be a strange man, but for all that, he knows, I daresay, what’s proper respect to a beetle.” With this strange transformation of his own title upon his lips, Mr. Otton stalked on rather majestically, as he thought, to the street, and thence to Todd’s shop door, with the shoemaker following him. The gait of the latter expressed reluctance, and there was a dubious CORniclooo S CO)