The Gift of the Sailor: The String of Pearls & Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street — page 215: what you’re looking at

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

“Stop!” said Sir Richard Blunt. The captive cook was still. “Stop!” cried Sir Richard Blunt again. “Good God! who is that?” said the voice from the region of the oven. “Your good genius, * if I save you from doing anything rash. Who and what are you? Tell me all.” “To be betrayed. Ah, you are some spy of Mrs. Lovett’s of course, and you only wish to draw me into conversation for my destruction.” “What were you going to do just now?” “Take my own life.” “Well, if you find I am an enemy instead of a friend, as I profess to be, you can but carry out your intention.” “That’s true.” The captive cook pronounced these two words in such a solemn tone, that the magistrate was more than ever convinced of his sincerity, and that he was far more a victim of Mrs. Lovett and her associate, the barber, than an accomplice. “Speak freely,” said Sir Richard. “Who and what are you?” “T am the most unhappy wretch that ever breathed. I am cribbed and cabined and confined, I live upon raw flour and water. I curse the hour that I was born, and wish I had been a blind kitten and drowned, rather than what I am.” “But what do you do here?” “Make numberless pies.” “Well?” “Tt’s all very fine for you to say well, whoever you are, but it is anything but well with me. Where are you?” “Upon the staircase, near an iron door.” “Ah, you are at the aperture through which that abominable Mrs. Lovett issues to me her commands and her threats. If you have any compassion in your nature, and the smallest desire to hear a story that will curdle your blood, you will find out the means of opening that door, and then I will climb up to it and make one effort for freedom.” “My good friend, I am very much afraid it would materially derange my plans to do so.” “Derange your what?” “My plans.” “And are any plans to be placed in competition with my life and liberty? Oh, human nature—human nature, what a difference there is in you when you are upon the right side of the door from what you are when you are upon the wrong.” “My friend,” said Sir Richard Blunt, “that is a very philosophical remark, and I compliment you upon it. But now answer me truly one question, and for your own sake, and for the sake of justice, I beg you to answer me truly.” “What is it?” “Are you in present fear of death?” “No. Not while I continue to make the pies.” “Very good!” “Very good? Now by all that’s abominable, I only wish you had but to make them here for one week, and at the same time know as much as I know—TI rather suspect that you would never say very good again.” “One week?” “Yes. Only a week.” “Pray how long have you been here?” “T have lost count of the long weary days and the anxious nights. Oh, sir, be you whom you may, do not sport with me, for I am very —very wretched!” “Tf I could but be sure that you are a victim of the woman who lives above,” said Sir Richard. “Sure that Iam a victim? Oh, God, you suspect me of being her accomplice. Well, well, it is but natural, finding me here—I ought to expect as much. What can I say—what can I do to convince you of the contrary?” “Reveal all.” “Do you not know then that—that ; “That what? I may suspect much, but I know nothing.” “Then—then - The man’s voice sunk to a husky whisper, and when he had spoken a few words there was a death-like silence between him and Sir Richard Blunt. The latter at length said— “And you affirm this?” “T am willing to swear to it. Release me from here and take me to any court of justice you please, and I will affirm it. If you have any suspicion of my good faith, manacle me—bind me up in iron until I tell all.” “T am convinced.” CORniclooo S CO)