Tramp. I ain’t proud. Thank you, Guv’ner. You’re a good un. I worked my way back to England only to find my missus dead and the little un gone.
Horace. Gone? How gone?
Tramp. The people she had been with had left, and I never could find out what had become of her. Poor little Minnie!
Horace. Minnie!
Tramp. That was her name, sir.
Horace. Minnie? (Rising and his manner hardening.)
Tramp. Everything gone. Why should I care? Care! I beg pardon, sir. The whiskey set me talking. My story can’t interest you. Good night, sir. Perhaps if I come back in a day or two you might know of a job.
Horace. No. Quite useless. I can do nothing for you. Get along, now.
Tramp. Good night, sir. (Exit Tramp R.)