“It’s only about young Twist, my dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry. “A very good-looking boy, that, my dear.” “He need be, for he eats enough,” observed the lady. “There’s an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear,” resumed Mr. Sowerberry, “which is very interesting. He would make a delightful mute, my love.” Mrs. Sowerberry looked up with an expression of considerable wonderment. Mr. Sowerberry remarked it and, without allowing time for any observation on the good lady’s part, proceeded. “I don’t mean a regular mute to attend grown-up people, my dear, but only for children’s practice. It would be very new to have a mute in proportion, my dear. You may depend upon it, it would have a superb effect.” Mrs. Sowerberry, who had a good deal of taste in the undertaking way, was much struck by the novelty of this idea; but, as it would have been compromising her dignity to have said so, under existing circumstances, she merely inquired, with much sharpness, why such an obvious suggestion had not presented itself to her husband’s mind before? Mr. Sowerberry rightly construed this, as an acquiescence in his proposition; it was speedily determined, therefore, that Oliver should be at once initiated into the mysteries of the trade; and, with this view, that he should accompany his master on the very next occasion of his services being required. The occasion was not long in coming. Half an hour after breakfast next morning, Mr. Bumble entered the shop; and supporting his cane against the counter, drew forth his large leathern pocket-book: from which he selected a small scrap of paper, which he handed over to Sowerberry. “Aha!” said the undertaker, glancing over it with a lively countenance; “an order for a coffin, eh?” “For a coffin first, and a porochial funeral afterwards,” replied Mr. Bumble, fastening the strap of the leathern pocket-book: which, like himself, was very corpulent. “Bayton,” said the undertaker, looking from the scrap of paper to Mr. Bumble. “I never heard the name before.” Bumble shook his head, as he replied, “Obstinate people, Mr. Sowerberry; very obstinate. Proud, too, I’m afraid, sir.” “Proud, eh?” exclaimed Mr. Sowerberry with a sneer. “Come, that’s too much.” “Oh, it’s sickening,” replied the beadle. “Antimonial, Mr. Sowerberry!” “So it is,” acquiesced the undertaker. “We only heard of the family the night before last,” said the beadle; “and we shouldn’t have known anything about them, then, only a woman who lodges in the same house made an application to the porochial committee for them to send the porochial surgeon to see a woman as was very bad. He had gone out to dinner; but his ’prentice (which is a very clever lad) sent ’em some medicine in a blacking-bottle, offhand.” “Ah, there’s promptness,” said the undertaker.