“Just my view,” struck in Miles. “Just what I said last night. It’s absurd, you know, to expect him to own it. No fellow would. Besides, does Bootles look like the father of a fine bouncing baby that goes ‘Chucka, chucka, chuck?’ It’s absurd, you know.” Even Bootles joined in the laugh which followed, and Miles continued: “The only thing is—and it really is awkward for Bootles—the extraordinary likeness. Blue eyes, golden hair, fair complexion. I should say myself”—looking at his comrade critically, “that at the same age Bootles was just such a baby as that which turned up so mysteriously last night.” “That’s as may be. Any way, the youngster is not mine,” said Bootles, emphatically; “and what to do with the little beggar _I_ don’t know.” “Send it back to its mother,” suggested Dawson. “But I don’t know who the mother is,” Bootles answered, impatiently. “Oh no; so you say. Well, then, the brat must have growed, like Topsy. If I were you I should send it to the police-station.” “The police-station? Oh no; hang it all, the poor little beggar has done nothing to start the world in that way,” Bootles answered. “Did any of you,” asked Miles of the general company, “ever hear of a chap called Solomon?” “I—er—did,” answered Lacy, promptly. “His other name was—er—Fligg. The Reverend Solomon Fligg.” “Oh, we’ve all heard of _him_! but I meant a rather more celebrated person. There is a story about him—I rather think it’s in Proverbs”—eliciting a yell of laughter. “Not Proverbs? Well, perhaps it’s in the Song of Solomon. It’s about two mothers, who each had a baby, and one of them managed to smother hers in the night, and finding it dead when she woke up in the morning, claimed the other baby. Of course the other woman kicked up a row, a regular shindy, and they came before Solomon to get the matter settled. ‘Both claim it,’ said he. ‘Oh, chop it in half, and let each have a share—’ But you all know the rest. How the real mother gave up her claim sooner than see the child halved. Now in this case, you see, Bootles hasn’t the heart to send the child off to the police-station, as he would if—” “Here’s the colonel,” said some one at this point, and in less than two seconds he appeared. “Why, Ferrers,” he said, “I’ve been hearing a queer tale about you.” “Yes, sir,” said Bootles, dismally; “and where it will end _I_ don’t know! Here am I saddled—” “Well, of course you know whether the child has any claim upon you—” the colonel began. “Upon my honor it has not, colonel,” said Bootles, earnestly. “Then that, of course, settles the question,” replied the colonel, with a frown at the grinning faces along the table. “I should send the child to the workhouse immediately.” “The workhouse?” repeated Bootles, reflectively. “I’ll bet any one a fiver he don’t,” murmured Miles to his neighbors.