"Here is a problem for you and
all of us to solve. This forlorn object is representative, and
stands here to-night preaching us a serious sermon. He was
deserted on the Club steps --left there, perhaps, as a piece of
clever irony; he might be son to some of us. What's your name,
my boy?"
Ginx's Baby managed to say "Dunno!"
"Ask him if he has any name?" said an Irish ex-member, with a
grave face.
Ginx's Baby to this question responded distinctly "No."
"No name," said the humorist; "then the author of his being must
be Wilkie Collins."
Everybody laughed at this indifferent pleasantry but our hero.
His bosom began to heave ominously.
"What's to be done with him?"
"Send him to the workhouse."
"Send him to the d----" (there may be brutality among the gods
and goddesses).
"Give him to the porter."
"No thank you, sir," said he, promptly.
The gentlemen were turning away, when Sir Charles stopped them.
"Look here!" he said, taking the boy's arm and baring it, "this
boy can hardly be called a human being. See what a thin arm he
has--how flaccid and colorless the flesh seems--what an old
face!--and I can scarcely feel any pulse. Good heavens, get him
some wine! A few hours will send him to the d---- sure enough.
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