Betty

No modern Lycæum vvill ever equal thy Glory, […] deſcribing the povverful Betty, or the artful Picklock, […]

After a quick meal at a tea shop, we found ourselves in the hallway at the Midland Hotel, where he removed a skeleton key, or “betty” as he called it, from his pocket and inserted it in the keyhole. […] Once they were out of sight, I fumbled about with the betty for a few moments before the lock finally clicked open.

On olive oil in casks, twenty cents per gallon; olive salad oil in bottles or betties, thirty per centum ad valorem

A pie-size betty is traditional, but if you like, assemble the recipe in individual ovenproof ramekins.

Isn't my house classic? The columns date all the way back to 1972. Wasn't my Mom a betty? She died when I was just a baby. A fluke accident during a routine liposuction. I don't remember her, but I like to pretend she still watches over me.

“Well then,” he said. “Let’s say you can betty the lock, hang on a rope, and break the drum, and then lock up again with nobody the wiser. How do I get on in the first place, past the Scots jack, with his sharp cool?”

The forty quid! Gone! ’Ow could she ’ave gotten in there? The peter ain’t broke, no sign of it bein’ bettied, and I the only one w’ the key.

“I’m perfectly well, thank you, Miss Hester,” she said, coldly. “I detest being bettied.”