"Well, I can hardly tell you, if you won't have Wagstaff, or Pugsby, or Sniggins, or Goldman, or somebody that's respectable, to do what's proper, the child sha'n't be christened at all. As for Prettyman, or any such raff--no, never! I'm sure there's a certain set of people that poverty's catching from, and that Prettyman's one of 'em. Now, Caudle, I won't have my dear child lost by any of your spittoon acquaintance, I can tell you. "No; unless I can have MY way, the child sha'n't be christened at all. What do you say? "IT MUST HAVE A NAME? "There's no 'must' at all in the case--none. No, it shall have no name; and then see what the world will say. I'll call it Number Six- -yes, that will do as well as anything else, unless I've the godfather I like. Number Six Caudle! ha! ha! I think that must make you ashamed of yourself if anything can. Number Six Caudle--a much better name than Mr. Prettyman could give; yes, Number Six. What do you say? "ANYTHING BUT NUMBER SEVEN? "Oh, Caudle, if ever--" "At this moment," writes Caudle, "little Number Six began to cry; and taking advantage of the happy accident I somehow got to sleep." LECTURE XVII--CAUDLE IN THE COURSE OF THE DAY HAS VENTURED TO QUESTION THE ECONOMY OF "WASHING AT HOME." "Pooh! A pretty temper you come to bed in, Mr. Caudle, I can see! Oh, don't deny it--I think I ought to know by this time. But it's always the way; whenever I get up a few things, the house can hardly hold you! Nobody cries out more about clean linen than you do--and nobody leads a poor woman so miserable a life when she tries to make her husband comfortable. Yes, Mr. Caudle--comfortable! You needn't keep chewing the word, as if you couldn't swallow it. "WAS THERE EVER SUCH A WOMAN? "No, Caudle; I hope not: I should hope no other wife was ever put upon as I am! It's all very well for you. I can't have a little wash at home like anybody else but you must go about the house swearing to yourself, and looking at your wife as if she was your bitterest enemy. But I suppose you'd rather we didn't wash at all. Yes; then you'd be happy! To be sure you would--you'd like to have all the children in their dirt, like potatoes: anything, so that it didn't disturb you. I wish you'd had a wife who never washed--SHE'D have suited you, she would. Yes; a fine lady who'd have let your children go that you might have scraped 'em. She'd have been much better cared for than I am. I only wish I could let all of you go without clean linen at all--yes, all of you. I wish I could! And if I wasn't a slave to my family, unlike anybody else, I should.