The Gift of the Sailor: The String of Pearls & Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street — page 388: what you’re looking at

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

CHAPTER CXVIIL THE COOK WAITS UPON SIR RICHARD BLUNT AND HEARS NEWS. It took a quarter of an hour to reach the coach from the door of Mrs. Lovett’s shop, a distance that in twenty steps any one might have traversed; and, oh what a quarter of an hour of horrible suffering that was to the wretched woman, whose crimes had so infuriated the populace, that with one voice they called for her death! The coach door was opened, and Crotchet pushed his prisoner in. Mr. Green, and the other officer and the cook, followed her. “T will go on the box,” said Crotchet. “Very well,” said Green, “but be mindful of your own safety, Crotchet.” “All’s right. There ain’t any more o’ my sort in London, and I know I am rather a valuable piece 0’ goods. Has anybody got the rope ready for the lady?” “Here you are,” said a man, “I have one.” “You get up behind then,” said Crotchet, “for of course you know we shall soon want you.” “Yes, I will. That’s right! It’s all right, friends. I am to get up behind with the rope. Here’s the rope!” “Three cheers for the rope!” cried somebody, and the cheers were given with deafening violence. What will not a mob give three cheers for—ay, or any number of cheers you like to name? A piece of poor humanity in tinsel and fine linen, called a king or queen—a popular cry—a murderess—a rope—anything will suffice. Surely, Mr. Crotchet, you know something of the people! “Now,” said Crotchet to the coachman, “are you as bold as brass, and as strong as an iron file?” The coachman looked puzzled, but Mr. Crotchet pursued his queries. “Will these ’osses, if they is frightened a bit, cut along quick?” “Rather,” said the coachman. “The blessed fact is, that they won’t cut along unless you do frighten them a bit; and as for me being an old file and I having lots o’ brass, I doesn’t consider as I’m a bit worser nor my neighbours.” “You is as hignorant as a badger!” said Crotchet. “Make yourself easy and give me the reins. The mobs o’ people thinks as we is a- going to hang the woman at the corner of Fleet Market, but if I lives another ten minutes, she will be in Newgate. There may be something of a scuffle, and if anything happens to you, or to the coach or the ’osses, the county will pay handsomely, so now give me the reins. You may not like to whip through them, but I haven’t the least objection.” The coachman looked scared and nervous, but he gave up the reins and the whip to Crotchet, and then leaning back on the box, he waited with no small trepidation the result of the expected disturbance, while he had only Mr. Crotchet’s word that the county would pay for handsomely. The short distance from the comer of Bell Yard to the end of Fleet Market was rapidly traversed, and when that interesting point was reached, the dense mass of people set up another shout, and began to surround the lamp-post that was there, and to fill up all the avenues. “Get the rope up,” said Crotchet. “Yes, yes. Hurrah! hurrah! Pull her out, and hang her!” The highly interesting process of getting the rope fixed upon the little projecting piece of iron, upon which the lamplighter was wont to rest his ladder, had the effect that Crotchet expected, namely, to attract general attention; and then, taking advantage of the moment, he seized the whip and used it with such effect upon the horses, that, terrified and half maddened, they set off with the coach at a tearing gallop. For a moment or two—and in that moment or two Mr. Crotchet with his prisoner got to the corner of the Old Bailey—the mob were so staggered by this unexpected elopement of the hackney-coach, that not a soul followed it. The idea that the horses had of their own accord started, being probably alarmed at the links, was the first that possessed the people, and many voices called out loudly— “Pull ’em in—pull ’em in! Saw their heads off!” But when they saw Mr. Crotchet fairly turn into the Old Bailey, the trick that had been played upon them became apparent; and one yell of indignation and rage burst from the multitude. The pursuit was immediate; but Mr. Crotchet had too much the start of the mob, and long before the struggling infuriated people, impeding each other as they tore along, had reached the corner of the Old Bailey, Mrs. Lovett was in the lobby of the prison, and the officers safely with her. She looked like a corpse. The colour of her face was that of soiled white wax. But mobs, if they cannot wreak their vengeance upon what may be, for distinction’s sake, called the legitimate object of their displeasure, will do so upon something else; and upon reaching the door of Newgate, and finding there was no sort of chance of getting hold of Mrs. Lovett, they took the horses out of the hackney-coach, and started them off through the streets to go where they liked; and then, dragging the coach to Smithfield, they then and there made a bonfire of it, and were very much satisfied and delighted, indeed. “Now, mum,” said Crotchet to Mrs. Lovett, “didn’t I say I’d bring yer to the old stone jug as safe as ninepence?” She only looked at him vacantly; and then, glaring around her with a shudder, she said— “And this is Newgate?” “Just a few,” said Crotchet. CORniclooo S CO)