work.
What social utility had resulted from the great movements initiated by
them who erected and frequented this place? Ought they to have had, and
did they still need a complement? While wonderful political changes had
been wrought, and benefits not to be exaggerated won for many classes,
WHAT HAD BEEN DONE FOR GINX'S BABY?

The query would not have been very ridiculous. He was an unit of the
British Empire--nothing could blot out that fact before heaven! Had
anything been left undone that ought to have been done, or done that had
well been left undone, or were better to be undone now? Of a truth that
was worth a thought.

"What's all this?" said a big Member of Parliament, a minister renowned
for economy in matters financial and intellectual. "What are you doing
with this youngster? I never saw such an irregularity in a Club in my
life."

"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.

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,