Mr. Slinkum, draper, seconded the motion.
Mr. Edge, ironmonger, pointed out that there was no parliamentary precedent for such a disposition of the report, and, further, that such action did not dispose of the baby.
“Well,” said Mr. Cheekey, turning painfully red, “no matter how ye put it, I move to get rid of the brat. What's the best form of motion?”
A churchwarden, who happened to be a gentleman, explained that the Board could not dismiss the question in so summary a way. “He could foresee that there might be a nice point of law in the case. They would have to take some legal means of ascertaining their liabilities, and of forcing the other parish to take the child if they ought to do so. They must consult their solicitor.” This gentleman was sent for post haste. Meanwhile the baby was ordered to be brought in for inspection. The matron had handed him over to a sort of half-witted inmate of the house, whose wits, however, were strangely about him at the wrong time, to nurse and amuse him. This person brought Ginx's Baby into the Board-room, and placed him on the table. The Board of Guardians took a good look at him. He was not then in fair condition. He was limp, he was dirty, hollow in the cheeks, white, stiff in his limbs, and half-naked—(to be regardless of gender)—
“Pallidula, rigida, nudula.”
“Hum!” said Mr. Stink, who was a dog-breeder—“What's his pedigree?”
This brutal joke was well received by some of the Guardians.
“His pedigree,” answered the half-wit, gravely, “goes back for three hundred years. Parients unknown by name, but got by Misery out o' Starvashun. The line began with Poverty out o' Laziness in Queen Elizabeth's time. The breed has been a large 'un wotever you thinks of the quality.”
This pleasantry was less acceptable to the Board.
“Well,” said Mr. Scoop, grocer, a great stickler for parliamentary modes of procedure, “I move it be committed.”