"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.
Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this, as of course he ought to be, and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and
