The Gift of the Sailor: The String of Pearls & Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street — page 384: what you’re looking at

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

“That, madam,” said the tall stout man, “is not surely possible, when I have the beauty of a Mrs. Lovett to gaze upon, and render the place so exquisitely attractive; but if you will not permit me to have the pleasure of helping you up with the next batch of pies, which, after all, you may find heavier than you expect, I must leave you to do it yourself.” “So that I am not troubled any longer by you, sir, at all,” said Mrs. Lovett, “I don’t care how heavy the next batch of pies may happen to be, sir.” “Very good, madam.” “Upon my word,” said a small boy, giving the side of his face a violent rub with the hope of finding the ghost of a whisker there, “it’s really too bad.” “Ah, who’s that? Let me get at him!” “Oh, no, no, I—mean—that it’s too bad of Mrs. Lovett, my dear sir. Oh, don’t.” “Oh, very good; I am satisfied. Now, madam, you see that even your dear friend’s here, from Lincoln’s Inn—Are you from the Inn, small boy?” “Yes, sir, if you please.” “Very good. As I was saying, Mrs. Lovett, you now must of necessity perceive, that even your friends from the Inn, feel that your conduct is really too bad, madam.” Mrs. Lovett was upon this so dreadfully angry, that she disdained any reply to the tall stout man, but at once she applied herself to the windlass, which worked up the little platform, upon which a whole tray of a hundred pies was wont to come up, and began to turn it with what might be called a vengeance. How very strange it was—surely the words of the tall stout impertinent stranger were prophetic, for never before had Mrs. Lovett found what a job it was to work that handle, as upon that night. The axle creaked, and the cords and the pulleys strained and wheezed, but she was a determined woman, and she worked away at it. “T told you so, my dear madam,” said the stranger; “it is more evidently than you can do.” “Peace, Sir.” “T am done; work away ma’am, only don’t say afterwards that I did not offer to help you, that’s all.” Indignation was swelling at the heart of Mrs. Lovett, but she felt that if she wasted her breath upon the impertinent stranger, she should have none for the windlass; so setting her teeth, she fagged at it with a strength and a will that if she had not been in a right royal passion, she could not have brought to bear upon it on any account. There was quite an awful stillness in the shop. All eyes were bent upon Mrs. Lovett, and the cavity through which the next batch of those delicious pies were coming. Those who had had the good fortune to get one of the first lot, had only had their appetites heightened by the luxurious feast they had partaken of, while those who had had as yet none, actually licked their lips, and snuffed up the delightful aroma from the remains of the first batch. “Two for me, Mrs. Lovett,” cried a voice. “One veal for me. Three porks—one pork.” The voices grew fast and furious. “Silence!” cried the tall stout man. “I will engage that everybody shall be fully satisfied, and no one shall leave here without a thorough conviction that his wants in pies has been more than attended to.” The platform could be made to stop at any stage of its upward progress, by means of a ratchet wheel and a catch, and now Mrs. Lovett paused to take breath. She attributed the unusual difficulty in working the machinery to her own weakness, contingent upon her recent immersion in the Thames. “Sir,” she said between her clenched teeth, addressing the man who was such an eye-sore to her in the shop. “Sir, I don’t know who you are, but I hope to be able to show you when I have served these gentlemen, that even I am not to be insulted with impunity.” “Anything you please, madam,” he replied, “in a small way, only don’t exert yourself too much.” Mrs. Lovett flew to the windlass again, and from the manner in which she now worked at it, it was quite clear that when she had her hands free from that job, she fully intended to make good her threats against the tall stout man. The young beardless scions of the law, trembled at the idea of what might happen. And now the tops of the pies appeared. Then they saw the rim of the large tray upon which they were, and then just as the platform itself was level with the floor of the shop, up flew tray and pies, as if something had exploded beneath them, and a tall slim man sprung upon the counter. It was the cook, who from the cellars beneath, had laid himself as flat as he could beneath the tray of pies, and so had been worked up to the shop by Mrs. Lovett! “Gentlemen,” he cried, “I am Mrs. Lovett’s cook. The pies are made of human flesh!” o © @ We shrink, we tremble at the idea of attempting to describe the scene that ensued in the shop of Mrs. Lovett contingent upon this frightful apparition, and still more frightful speech of the cook; but duty—our duty to the public—requires that we should say something upon the occasion. If we can do nothing more, we can briefly enumerate what did actually take place in some instances. About twenty clerks rushed into Bell Yard, and there and then, to the intense surprise of the passers-by, became intensely sick. The cook, with one spring, cleared the counter, and alighted amongst the customers, and with another spring, the tall impertinent man, who had made many remarks to Mrs. Lovett of an aggravating tendency, cleared the counter likewise in the other direction, and, alighting close to Mrs. Lovett, he cried— CORniclooo S CO)