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.