Tramp. Minnie! Look! There’s my Minnie! My darling little Minnie!
Horace. Where?
Tramp. There in the doorway, with that swell! It’s my Minnie! I’ll swear to it! The living image of her mother! I’m going to speak to her.
Horace. (Holding him back) No, no, man. Think how you will disgrace her.
Tramp. Disgrace her? Why, she will be proud of her father.
Horace. See, she has someone to care for her. Why break in upon her life? You have forfeited your claim.
Tramp. Not much I haven’t. She could give me a fine lift up, and then I’d help you.
Horace. Not if I die in the gutter! It may be your right. But don’t drag her down to your level and mine. Stop him, Marsy! You can.
Messenger. (Waves his hand to Tramp, who seems to give up his purpose.) A thought for another. The fire is catching.
Tramp. Well, you’re a rum ’un! No wonder you are down on your luck. A man must think of himself in this world a little bit. But you’re a good sort. I won’t speak to the girl, though she is my daughter. See here now, I’ve got an idea.