“If you saw it oftener you would think more about it,” said Sir Charles Sterling. “We found him on the steps. I think he was asking for you, Glibton.”
This sally turned a laugh against the minister.
“Well,” said another, “he has come to the wrong quarter if he wants money.”
“I shouldn't wonder,” said a third, “if he were one of the new messengers at the Office of Popular Edifices. Glibton is reducing their staff.”
“If that's the case I think you have reached the minimum here, Glibton,” cried Sir Charles.
“Can't the country afford a livery?”
“Bother you all,” replied the Secretary, who was secretly pleased to be quizzed for his peculiarities—“tell us what this means. Whose 'lark' is it?”
“No lark at all,” said Sterling. “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.