The Gift of the Sailor: The String of Pearls & Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street — page 301: what you’re looking at

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

JOHN JEFFERY. To Sir Richard Blunt. “Broken a blood-vessel,” said Todd. “Ha! ha! Broken a blood-vessel. Ha! Then Tobias may yet be food for worms, and the meat of the pretty crawlers to the banquet. Ha!” He walked on with quite a feeling of elation: and yet there was, as he came to think, a something—he could not exactly define what —about the tone of the letter, that began upon second thoughts to give him no small share of uneasiness. The familiar way in which he was mentioned as Todd merely, without further description, argued some foregone conclusion. It seemed to say, Todd, the man whom we both know so well, and have our eyes upon. Did it mean that? A cold perspiration broke out upon the forehead of the guilty wretch. What was he to think? What was he to do? He read the letter again. It sounded much more unmeaning and strange now. He had at first been too much dazzled by the pleasant intelligence regarding Tobias, to comprehend fully the alarming tone of the epistle; but now it waked upon his imagination, and his brain soon became vexed and troubled. “Off—off, and away,” he muttered. “Yes, I must be off before the dawn. The interception of this letter saves me for some few hours. In the morning, the colonel will see Sir Richard Blunt, and then they will come to arrest me; but I shall be upon the German Ocean by then. Yes, the Hamburgh ship for me.” He was so near his home now that it was not worth while to call a coach. He could run to Fleet Street quicker, so off he set at a great pace till his breath failed him. Then he held on to a post so faint and weak, that a little child might have apprehended him. “Curse them all,” he said. “I wish they all had but one throat, and I a knife at it. All who cross me, I mean.” Time was rather am important element now in Todd’s affairs, and he felt that he could not allow himself a long period even to recover from the state of exhaustion in which he was. After a few minutes rest, he pushed on. One of those sudden changes that the climate of this country is subject to, now took place; and although the sky had looked serene and bright, and there had been twinkling stars in the blue firmament but a short time before, Todd began to find that his clothing was but little protection against the steady rain that commenced falling with a perseverance that threatened something lasting. “All is against me,” he said. “All is against me.” He struggled on with the rain dashing in his face, and trickling, despite all his exertions to the contrary, down his neck. Suddenly he paused, and laid his finger upon his forehead, as though a sudden thought of more than ordinary importance had come across his mind. “The turpentine!” he said. “The turpentine. Confound it, I forget the turpentine.” What this might mean was one of Todd’s own secrets; but before he went home, he ran down several streets until he came to a kind of wholesale drug warehouse. He rang the bell violently. “What is it?” said a voice. “The small keg of turpentine that was to be sent to Mr. Todd’s in Fleet Street, is particularly wanted.” “Tt was sent about half an hour ago.” “Oh, thank you—thank you. That will do. A wet night.” In a few minutes more he was at his own shop-door. Q9ODO0GOOO CORniclooo S CO)