Messenger. Poor child of the times, crying over your alphabet.
Horace. What will become of me? What will I do?
Messenger. Where are your divisions of labor now? Yours will be to tramp the streets. Stand forth, poor shivering wretch! You are a beggar in rags!
(Horace’s coat, scarf and hat are torn from him, and he appears as a ragged loafer.)
Horace. (Looking down at himself in despair) I am! I am!
Messenger. And hungry.
Horace. Ravenous!
(Horace leans back against the railings of the house, a most forlorn object. After a pause, enter slowly from R. the Tramp. Tramp spies Horace and sidles up to him, and takes up a similar pose by his side. Nothing said for a little, but they examine each other.)
Tramp. Know anything?