Oliver was confined to a dark and lonely room for a week after he had dared to ask for more gruel. No one responded to the notice offering him as an apprentice. The workhouse board began to think about sending him to sea to work as a cabin boy.
The board members sent Mr. Bumble out to make some inquiries to ship captains. He was just returning to the workhouse when he met the village undertaker, Mr. Sowerberry, at the gate.
"I've come for the two women who died last night," said Mr. Sowerberry as he cordially stepped forward and shook Mr. Bumble's hand.
"You'll make a fortune when the board pays you, Mr. Sowerberry," said Mr. Bumble.
The undertaker shook his head. "The amount paid by the board for the paupers' coffins is very small."
"So are the coffins!"
Mr. Bumble allowed himself only a smile because he was an important official. But Mr. Sowerberry was very amused by the joke and laughed for a long time.
"Well, Mr. Bumble," he said at last, "there's no denying that the coffins are somewhat narrower since you started feeding the paupers less."
That reminded the parish officer of Oliver. "You don't know anybody who wants an apprentice, do you?" Mr. Bumble raised his cane to the notice on the gate and gave three raps on the words "Five Pounds."
"That's the very thing I wanted to speak to you about! I pay so much in taxes to support the poor, I have a right to get a lot out of them. So I'll take the boy myself."
Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm and hurried him into the workhouse. Within five minutes the board decided that Oliver should go to Mr. Sowerberry immediately for a month's trial period. That evening Oliver was brought before the board and informed that he was to become an apprentice to the undertaker.
"And if you ever complain or come back to this workhouse again, you will be sent to sea," said Mr. Limbkins, the head of the board. "Do you understand, boy?"
Oliver nodded and showed no emotion.
"Oh, he's a hardened young rascal," said Mr. Limbkins as Oliver was led away by Mr. Bumble. The other board members nodded in agreement.
So Oliver pulled his cap over his eyes, picked up the small brown paper parcel that contained all his belongings, and once more attached himself to Mr. Bumble's coat cuff.
For some time Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along without noticing him. This was partly because the parish officer held his head high, as an important parish officer always should. And this was also because it was a windy day. Little Oliver was completely hidden by Mr. Bumble's coat whenever it blew open.
As they drew near their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought he should make sure that the boy was ready for inspection by the undertaker.
"Oliver!" said Mr. Bumble.
"Yes, sir," replied Oliver in a low, tremulous voice.
"Pull that cap off your eyes and hold up your head."
Oliver immediately did what he was told. As he was pushing up his cap, a tear fell on his hand. And as Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, another tear rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another and another. Oliver covered his face with both hands and wept.
Mr. Bumble glared at Oliver. "Well, of all the most ungrateful and worst-behaved boys that I have ever seen, Oliver, you are the—"
"No, no, sir." Oliver sobbed. "I will be good. Indeed, sir, I will. I'm a very little boy, sir, and it's so . . . so . . ."
"So what?" Mr. Bumble asked in amazement.
"So lonely, sir. So very lonely! Everybody hates me. Oh, please don't be angry with me!"
For a moment Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver with some astonishment. "Ahem . . . well, yes . . . ahem . . . oh, this troublesome cough," said the parish officer. He cleared his throat and managed to keep the tears from his own eyes.
"Now dry your eyes and be a good boy," he finally said to Oliver. He took Oliver's hand and they walked on in silence.
Mr. Sowerberry was busy making some entries in a ledger when they arrived at his shop.
"Here!" said Mr. Bumble. "I've brought the boy."
Oliver made a bow.
"Oh, that's the boy, is it?" The undertaker raised his candle to get a better view of Oliver. "Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?"
Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop.
"My dear," said Mr. Sowerberry, "this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you about."
Oliver bowed again.
"Oh, my!" said the undertaker's wife. "He's very small."
"Yes, he is rather small," agreed Mr. Bumble. "But he'll grow."
"I daresay he will grow, once he starts eating our food and drink," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "I see no saving in employing workhouse children for they always cost more than they're worth. But men always think they know best. Get downstairs, little bag of bones."
With that, Mrs. Sowerberry opened a door and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs to the kitchen. A servant girl was sitting in the kitchen, which was a damp, dark room just outside the cellar.
"Here, Charlotte," said Mrs. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver downstairs. "Give this boy the cold meat scraps you were saving for the dog. That animal hasn't come home all day, so he'll have to do without. I'm sure this boy isn't too fussy to eat them. Are you, boy?"
Oliver's eyes lit up at the mention of meat. "Oh no, ma'am."
Charlotte set a plate of meat scraps before him, and Oliver gobbled up the dog's food.
In silent horror Mrs. Sowerberry watched Oliver eat. If he was this hungry now, how much would he eat when he was bigger?
"Well," she said when Oliver had finished his supper. "Are you done?"
Oliver looked around the kitchen. There was nothing more to eat within his reach. "Yes," he said.
"Then come with me." Mrs. Sowerberry picked up a dim and dirty lamp and led the way upstairs. "Your bed's under the counter. You don't mind sleeping among the coffins?"
Oliver hesitated on the stairs.
"Well, it doesn't matter whether you do or don't because you can't sleep anywhere else," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "Come on! Don't keep me here all night!"
Oliver meekly followed his new mistress upstairs.