The next morning, the public were once informed that
Oliver Twist was again To Let, and that five pounds
would be paid to anybody who would take possession
of him.
Oliver, being offered another
place, makes his first entry
into public life
In great families, when an advantageous place cannot
be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder,
or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up,
it is a very general custom to send him to sea.
The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an
example, took counsel together on the expediency of
shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel
bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested
itself as the very best thing that could possibly
be done with him: the probability being, that
the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood,
some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out
with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty
generally known, very favourite and common recreations
among gentleman of that class. The more the
case presented itself to the board, in this point of
view, the more manifold the advantages of the step
appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the
only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was
to send him to sea without delay.
Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary
inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain
or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends;
and was returning to the workhouse to communicate
the result of his mission; when he encountered at
the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the
parochial undertaker.
Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man,
attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned
cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to
answer. His features were not naturally intended
to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather
given to professional jocosity. His step was
elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry,
as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially
by the hand.
’I have taken the measure of the two women that
died last night, Mr. Bumble,’ said the undertaker.
‘You’ll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,’
said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger
into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker:
which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin.
‘I say you’ll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,’
repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the
shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane.
‘Think so?’ said the undertaker in a tone
which half admitted and half disputed the probability
of the event. ’The prices allowed by the
board are very small, Mr. Bumble.’
‘So are the coffins,’ replied the beadle:
with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a
great official ought to indulge in.
