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.... What are we to do for him, Glibton? I say again, he is only part of a great problem. There must be hundreds of thousands growing up like this child; and what a generation to contemplate in all its relations and effects!”