The occasion was not long in coming; for, 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; "perfectly antimonial, Mr. Sowerberry."
"So it is," acquiesced the undertaker.
"We only heard of them 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, off-hand."
"Ah, there's promptness," said the undertaker.