"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 friends 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 pullies strained and wheezed, but she was a determined woman, and she worked away at it.
"I told you so, my dear madam," said the stranger; "it is more evidently than you can do."
"Peace, sir."
"I am done; work away ma'am, only don't say afterwards that I did not offer to help you, that's all."