and
then Mrs. Lovett might, by a not very remote possibility, say to
herself--"This cook is a scheming, long-headed sort of a cook, and
notwithstanding he does his duty by the pies, he shall be sent upon an
errand to another and a better world," and in that case the delectable
scheme of the note could only end in the total destruction of the
unfortunate who conceived it. Objection the second was, that, although
nothing is so easy as to say--"Oh, write a note all about it," nothing
is so difficult as to write a note about anything without paper, ink,
and a pen. The cook rubbed his forehead, and cried--

"D----n it!" This seemed to have the desired effect, for he at once recollected that
he was supplied with a thin piece of paper for the purpose of laying
over the pies if the oven should by chance be over heated, and so
subject them to an over-browning process. "Surely," he thought, "I shall be able to make a substitute for a pen,
and as for ink, a little coal and water, or--ah, I have it, black from
my lights, of course. Ha--ha! How difficulties vanish when a man has
thoroughly made up his mind to overcome them. Ha--ha! I write a note--I
post it in a pie--some lawyer sends his clerk for a pie, and he gets
_that_ pie. He opens it and sees the note--he reads it--he flies to a
police-office, and gets a private interview with a magistrate--a couple
of Bow-street runners walk down to Bell Yard, and seize Mrs. Lovett--I
hear a row in the shop, and cry--'Here I am--I am here--make haste--here
I am--here I am!' Ha--ha--ha--ha--ha--ha!" "Are you mad?" The cook started to his feet--

"Who spoke--who spoke?" "I," said Mrs. Lovett, looking through the ingenious little wicket at
the top of the door. "What do you mean by that laughing? If you have
gone mad, as one cook once did, death will be a relief to you. Only
convince me of that fact, and in two hours you sleep the long sleep." "I beg your pardon, ma'am, I am not at all mad." "Then why did you laugh in such a way that it reached even my ears
above?" "Why, ma'am, are you not a widow?" "Well?" "Well then, you could not have possibly looked at me as you ought to
have done, or you would have seen that I am anything but a bad looking
fellow, and as I am decidedly single, what do you say to taking me for
better or for worse? The pie business is a thriving one, and, of course,
if I had an interest in it, I should say nothing of affairs down below
here." "Fool!" "Thank you, madam, for the compliment, but I assure you, the idea of
such an arrangement made me laugh, and at all events, provided I do my
duty, you don't mind my laughing a little at it?" Mrs. Lovett disdained any further conversation with the cook, and closed
the little wicket. When she was gone he took himself seriously to task
for being so foolish as to utter his thoughts aloud, but yet he did not
think he had gone so far as to speak loud enough about the plan of
putting the letter in a pie for her to hear that. "Oh, no--no, I am safe enough. It was the laughing that made her come. I
am safe as yet!" Having satisfied himself fully upon this point, he at once set to work
to manufacture his note. The paper, as he had said, was ready at hand. To be sure, it was of a thin and flimsy texture, and decidedly brown,
but a man in his situation could be hardly supposed to stand upon
punctilios. After some trouble he succeeded in making an apology for a
pen by the aid of a piece of stick, and he manufactured some very
tolerable ink, at least, as good as the soot and water commonly sold in
London for the best "japan," and then he set about writing his note. As
we have an opportunity of looking over his shoulder, we give the note
verbatim. "SIR--(OR MADAM)--I am a prisoner beneath the shop of Mrs. Lovett, the
pie female, in Bell Yard. I am threatened with death if I attempt to
escape from my now enforced employment. Moreover, I am convinced that
there is some dreadful secret connected with the pies, which I can
hardly trust my imagination to dwell upon, much less here set it down. Pray instantly, upon receipt of this, go to the nearest police-office
and procure me immediate aid, or I shall soon be numbered with the dead. In the sacred names of justice and humanity, I charge you to do this." The cook did not, for fear of accidents, put his name to this epistle. It was sufficient, he thought, that he designated his condition, and
pointed out where he was. This note he folded into a close flat shape,
and pressed it with his hands, so that it would take up a very small
portion of room in a pie, and yet, from its size and nature, if the pie
fell into the hands of some gourmand who commenced eating it violently,
he could not fail to feel that there was a something in his mouth more
indigestible than the delicate mutton or veal and the flaky crust of
which Mrs. Lovett's delicacies were composed. Having proceeded thus far,
he concluded that the only real risk he ran was, that the pie might be
eaten in the shop, and the enclosure, without examination, handed over
to Mrs. Lovett merely as a piece of paper which had insinuated itself
where it had no right to be. But as no design whatever can be carried
out without some risk or another, he was not disposed to give up his,
because some contingency of that character was attached to it. The
prospect of deliverance from the horrible condition to which he was
reduced, now spread over his mind a pleasing calm, and he set about the
manufacture of a batch of pies, so as to have it ready for the oven when
the bell should ring.--Into one of them he carefully introduced his
note. Oh, what an eye he kept upon that individual pie. How often he
carefully lifted the upper crust, to have a peep at the little missive
which was about to go upon an errand of life or death.--How he tried to
picture to his mind's eye the sort of person into whose hands it might
fall, and then how he thought he would listen for any sounds during the
next few hours, which should be indicative of the arrest of Mrs. Lovett,
and the presence of the police in the place. He thought, then, that if
his laugh had been sufficiently loud when merely uttered to himself, to
reach the ears of Mrs. Lovett, surely his shout to the police would be
heard above all other sounds, and at once bring them to his aid. Tingle! tingle! tingle! went a bell. It was the signal for him to get a batch of
pies ready for the oven. "Good," he said, "it is done." He waited until the signal was given to him to put them in to be cooked,
and then, after casting one more look at the pie that contained his
note, in went the batch to the hot air of the oven, which came out upon
his face like the breath of some giant in a highly febrile state. "'Tis done," he said. "'Tis done, and I am saved!" He sat down and covered his face with his hands, while delicious dreamy
thoughts of freedom came across his brain. Green fields, trees, meadows
and uplands, and the sweet blue sky, all appeared before him in bright
and beautiful array.