said Todd. "Was there ever anybody so mad?" [Illustration: Tobias In The Hands Of The Mad-House Keepers.] "Desperately mad," said the keeper. "Come, come, young fellow, we shall
be under the necessity of putting you in a strait waistcoat if you go on
in that way. We must do it, for there is no help in such cases if we
don't." Todd slunk back into the dark of the apartment, so that he was not seen,
and Tobias continued, in an imploring tone--

"I do not know who you are, sir, or where I am; but let me beg of you to
cause the house of Sweeney Todd, the barber, in Fleet-street, near St.
Dunstan's church, to be searched, and you will find that he is a
murderer. There are at least a hundred hats, quantities of walking
sticks, umbrellas, watches, and rings, all belonging to unfortunate
persons who, from time to time, have met with their deaths through him." "How uncommonly mad!" said Mr. Fogg. "No, no," said Tobias, "I am not mad. Why call me mad, when the truth or
falsehood of what I say can be ascertained so easily? Search his house,
and if those things be not found there, say that I am mad, and have but
dreamed of them. I do not know how he kills the people. That is a great
mystery to me yet; but that he does kill them, I have no doubt--I cannot
have a doubt." "Watson!" cried the mad-house keeper. "Hilloa! here, Watson." "I am here, sir," said the man, who had been dashing water upon poor
Tobias's face. "You will take this lad, Watson, as he seems extremely feverish and
unsettled. You will take him and shave his head, Watson, and put a
strait waistcoat upon him, and let him be put in one of the dark, damp
cells. We must be careful of him, and too much light encourages delirium
and fever." "Oh! no, no!" cried Tobias; "What have I done that I should be subjected
to such cruel treatment? what have I done that I should be placed in a
cell? If this be a madhouse, I am not mad. Oh! have mercy upon me!--have
mercy upon me!" "You will give him nothing but bread and water, Watson; and the first
symptom of his recovery, which will produce better treatment, will be
his exonerating his master from what he has said about him; for he must
be mad so long as he continues to accuse such a gentleman as Mr. Todd of
such things; nobody but a mad man or a mad boy would think of it." "Then," said Tobias, "I shall continue mad; for if it be madness to know
and aver that Sweeney Todd, the barber, of Fleet-street, is a murderer,
mad am I, for I know it, and aver it. It is true--it is true." "Take him away, Watson, and do as I desired you. I begin to find that
the boy is a very dangerous character, and more viciously mad than
anybody we have had here for a considerable time." The man named Watson seized upon Tobias, who again uttered a shriek
something similar to the one which had come from his lips when Sweeney
Todd clutched hold of him in his mother's room. But they were used to
such things in that madhouse, and cared little for them, so no one
heeded the cry in the least; but poor Tobias was carried to the door
half maddened in reality by the horrors that surrounded him. Just as he
was being conveyed out, Sweeney Todd stepped up to him, and putting his
mouth close to his ear, he whispered--

"Ha! ha! Tobias! how do you feel now? Do you think Sweeney Todd will be
hung, or will you die in the cell of a madhouse?" CHAPTER XX. THE NEW COOK TO MRS. LOVETT GETS TIRED OF HIS SITUATION. From what we have already had occasion to record about Mrs. Lovett's new
cook, who ate so voraciously in the cellar, our readers will no doubt be
induced to believe that he was a gentleman likely enough soon to be
tired of his situation. To a starving man, and one who seemed completely
abandoned even by hope, Lovett's bake-house, with an unlimited leave to
eat as much as possible, must of course present itself in the most
desirable and lively colours: and no wonder therefore, that, banishing
all scruple, a man so placed, would take the situation, with very little
inquiry. But people will tire of good things; and it is a remarkable
well-authenticated fact that human nature is prone to be discontented. And those persons who are well acquainted with the human mind, and who
know well how little value people set upon things which they possess,
while those which they are pursuing, and which seem to be beyond their
reach, assume the liveliest colours imaginable, adopt various means of
turning this to account. Napoleon took good care that the meanest of his
soldiers should see in perspective the possibility of grasping a
marshal's baton. Confectioners at the present day, when they take a new
apprentice, tell him to eat as much as he likes of those tempting tarts
and sweetmeats, one or two of which before had been a most delicious
treat. The soldier goes on fighting away, and never gets the marshal's
baton. The confectioner's boy crams himself with Banbury cakes, gets
dreadfully sick, and never touches one afterwards. And now, to revert to
our friend in Mrs. Lovett's bakehouse. At first everything was
delightful, and, by the aid of the machinery, he found that it was no
difficult matter to keep up the supply of pies by really a very small
amount of manual labour. And that labour also was such a labour of love,
for the pies were delicious; there could be no mistake about that. He
tasted them half cooked, he tasted them wholly, and he tasted them
over-done; hot and cold; pork and veal with seasoning, and without
seasoning, until at last he had had them in every possible way and
shape; and when the fourth day came after his arrival in the cellar, he
might have been sitting in rather a contemplative attitude with a pie
before him. It was twelve o'clock: he had heard that sound come from the
shop. Yes, it was twelve o'clock, and he had eaten nothing yet; but he
kept his eye fixed upon the pie that lay untouched before him. "The pies are all very well," he said; "in fact, of course they are
capital pies; and now that I see how they are made, and know that there
is nothing wrong in them, I, of course, relish them more than ever; but
one can't always live upon pies; it's quite impossible one can subsist
upon pies from one end of the year to the other, if they were the finest
pies the world ever saw, or ever will see. I don't say anything against
the pies--I know they are made of the finest flour, the best possible
butter, and that the meat, which comes from God knows where, is the most
delicate looking and tender I ever ate in all my life." He stretched out his hand and broke a small portion of the crust from
the pie that was before him, and he tried to eat it. He certainly did
succeed; but it was a great effort; and when he had done, he shook his
head, saying--

"No, no!--d--n it! I cannot eat it, and that's the fact--one cannot be
continually eating pies: it is out of the question, quite out the
question; and all I have to remark is--d--n the pies! I really don't
think I shall be able to let another one pass my lips."