In wealthy families, when a suitable position cannot be secured for a young man through inheritance or connections, it is a common practice to send him to sea. The board, following this wise and beneficial example, debated the idea of shipping Oliver Twist off on a small trading vessel bound for some unhealthy foreign port. This seemed like an ideal solution, as there was a strong likelihood that a captain might, in a playful mood after dinner, beat him to death or strike him with an iron bar—pastimes that were widely known to be favorites among men of that profession. The more the board considered this option, the more advantages they saw in it. Consequently, they concluded that the only way to provide for Oliver effectively was to send him to sea without delay.
Mr. Bumble had been dispatched to make preliminary inquiries, searching for a captain in need of a cabin boy with no friends or family. He was returning to the workhouse to report the results of his mission when he encountered Mr. Sowerberry, the parish undertaker, at the gate.
Mr. Sowerberry was a tall, thin man with prominent joints, dressed in a suit of worn-out black clothes, with repaired cotton stockings and matching shoes. His features were not naturally designed for smiling, but he was generally inclined toward a kind of professional humor. He walked with an energetic step and a look of inner amusement as he approached Mr. Bumble and shook his hand cordially.
“I have just taken the measurements of the two women who died last night, Mr. Bumble,” said the undertaker.
“You’ll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,” the beadle remarked, taking a pinch of snuff from the undertaker’s box, which was designed to look like a tiny coffin. “I say you’ll make your fortune,” Mr. Bumble repeated, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder with his cane in a friendly manner.
“Do you think so?” the undertaker asked, in a tone that both accepted and doubted the possibility. “The prices allowed by the board are very low, Mr. Bumble.”
“So are the coffins,” replied the beadle, with the closest thing to a laugh that a high-ranking official should permit himself.
Mr. Sowerberry was greatly amused by this remark and laughed for a long time. “Well, Mr. Bumble,” he said finally, “there’s no denying that since the new system of feeding the poor began, the coffins are a bit narrower and shallower than they used to be. But we must make a profit somehow. Good wood is expensive, and all the iron handles have to be brought by canal from Birmingham.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Bumble, “every trade has its difficulties. A fair profit is, of course, perfectly acceptable.”
“Of course, of course,” the undertaker agreed. “And if I don’t make a profit on one item, I make it up in the long run—he! he! he!”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Bumble.
“Though I must say,” continued the undertaker, returning to his earlier point, “that I face one major disadvantage: the fat people are the first to die. Those who used to be well-off and paid taxes for years are the first to collapse when they enter the workhouse. Let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, three or four extra inches in a coffin makes a big dent in one’s profits, especially when one has a family to support.”
As Mr. Sowerberry spoke with the indignation of a man who felt cheated, Mr. Bumble decided it was best to change the subject, as the comment reflected poorly on the parish’s honor. Since Oliver Twist was on his mind, he made the boy his topic.
“By the way,” said Mr. Bumble, “you don’t happen to know anyone who needs a boy, do you? A parish apprentice who is currently a burden—a millstone, you might say, around the parish’s neck? Very generous terms, Mr. Sowerberry, very generous.” As he spoke, he tapped his cane on the notice above them, specifically on the words “FIVE POUNDS” printed in giant letters.
“Goodness!” said the undertaker, grabbing Mr. Bumble’s sleeve. “That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. You know—dear me, what an elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before.”
“Yes, it is rather nice,” the beadle said, looking proudly at the large brass buttons on his coat. “The design is the same as the parish seal—the Good Samaritan healing the sick and injured man. The board gave them to me on New Year’s morning. I remember wearing them for the first time at the inquest of that poor tradesman who died in a doorway at midnight.”
“I remember,” said the undertaker. “The jury decided he died from exposure to the cold and lack of basic necessities, didn't they?”
Mr. Bumble nodded.
“And they added a special note,” the undertaker continued, “saying that if the officer in charge had—”
“Nonsense! Foolishness!” interrupted the beadle. “If the board listened to all the rubbish ignorant juries talk, they would never get anything done.”
“Very true,” the undertaker agreed.
“Juries,” said Mr. Bumble, gripping his cane tightly as he grew angry, “are uneducated, vulgar, and pathetic creatures.”
“Indeed they are,” said the undertaker.
“They understand nothing of philosophy or economics,” the beadle added, snapping his fingers dismissively.
“I despise them,” said the beadle, his face turning red.
“As do I,” the undertaker joined in.
“I only wish we could keep a jury in the workhouse for a week or two,” said the beadle. “The board’s rules would soon break their spirit.”
Mr. Bumble took off his hat, wiped the sweat of anger from his forehead with a handkerchief, and then turned back to the undertaker in a calmer voice. “Well, what about the boy?”
“Oh!” replied the undertaker. “Well, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a lot in taxes for the poor.”
“And?” prompted Mr. Bumble.
“Well,” replied the undertaker, “I was thinking that if I pay so much, I have a right to get as much as I can in return. So—I think I’ll take the boy myself.”
Mr. Bumble took the undertaker by the arm and led him inside. After a five-minute meeting with the board, it was arranged that Oliver would go to him that evening "on trial." This meant that if the master found he could get enough work out of the boy without feeding him too much, he would keep him for several years to do with as he pleased.
When little Oliver was brought before the gentlemen that evening and told he was to become an assistant to a coffin-maker, he showed very little emotion. He was warned that if he complained or ever returned to the parish, he would be sent to sea to be drowned. Because of his quiet reaction, the board labeled him a "hardened young rascal" and ordered him to be taken away immediately.
In reality, Oliver did not lack feeling; he had far too much of it. He was simply becoming numb and stupid from the constant mistreatment he had endured. He heard the news in silence. His luggage—a small brown paper parcel—was placed in his hand, and he was led away by Mr. Bumble to a new scene of suffering.
As they walked, Mr. Bumble held his head high, as a beadle should. It was a windy day, and little Oliver was nearly hidden by the skirts of the beadle’s large coat. As they approached their destination, Mr. Bumble looked down to ensure the boy was presentable for his new master.
“Oliver!” said Mr. Bumble.
“Yes, sir,” Oliver replied in a low, shaking voice.
“Take that cap off your eyes and hold your head up, sir.”
Oliver obeyed immediately, but as he looked up at his guide, a tear rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another. The child tried to stop himself, but he couldn't. Releasing Mr. Bumble’s hand, he covered his face with both of his own and wept so intensely that the tears seeped through his thin fingers.
“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping and looking at the boy with pure hatred. “Of all the ungrateful and ill-behaved boys I’ve ever seen, Oliver, you are the—”
“No, no, sir,” sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand that held the cane. “I will be good, I promise! I am such a little boy, sir, and it is so—so—”
“So what?” Mr. Bumble asked in surprise.
“So lonely, sir! So very lonely!” cried the child. “Everybody hates me. Oh, sir, please don't be angry with me!” The child beat his hand against his chest and looked at Bumble with genuine agony in his eyes.
Mr. Bumble looked at Oliver’s helpless expression for a few seconds. He coughed a few times, muttered something about a "troublesome cough," and told Oliver to dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then, taking his hand again, they walked on in silence.
The undertaker was closing his shop and writing in his ledger by the light of a single, dim candle when Mr. Bumble entered.
“Aha!” said the undertaker. “Is that you, Bumble?”
“No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,” the beadle replied. “I’ve brought the boy.” Oliver bowed.
“Oh, so that’s the boy?” the undertaker said, raising the candle to get a better look. “Mrs. Sowerberry, would you mind coming here for a moment, my dear?”
A short, thin woman with a sharp, mean face emerged from a back room.
“My dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry politely, “this is the boy from the workhouse I mentioned.” Oliver bowed again.
“Dear me,” said the wife, “he’s very small.”
“He is rather small,” Mr. Bumble admitted, looking at Oliver as if his height were a personal insult. “But he’ll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry—he’ll grow.”
“I’m sure he will,” she replied crossly, “on our food and our drink. I see no benefit in parish children; they always cost more than they’re worth. Anyway, men always think they know best. Get downstairs, you bag of bones!”
With that, she pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a damp, dark stone room called the "kitchen." A messy girl in worn-out blue stockings was sitting there.
“Here, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, “give this boy the cold remains that were set aside for Trip, the dog. He hasn't come home, so the boy can have them. I’m sure he isn't too picky to eat them—are you, boy?”
Oliver, whose eyes lit up at the mention of meat, shook his head eagerly. A plate of scraps was placed before him.
I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose heart is as cold as ice, could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the food the dog had ignored. I wish he could have seen the desperate greed with which Oliver tore the meat apart with the ferocity of starvation. I would like even more to see that same philosopher forced to eat such a meal himself with the same hunger.
“Well,” said the undertaker’s wife when Oliver had finished, “have you had enough?”
Since there was nothing else to eat, Oliver said yes.
“Then come with me,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, picking up a dirty lamp. “Your bed is under the counter. I suppose you don’t mind sleeping among the coffins? It doesn't matter if you do, because you have no other choice. Come on, don't keep me waiting all night!”
Oliver followed his new mistress without a word.