It was a pity that Derrick Dene was not a descriptive writer, instead of
a struggling engineer, for had he been, he might have got some copy of
quite a purple hue out of the "tramp" and its temporary denizens. We
often hear of a literary production which is without a dull page, but it
may be said with truth that Dene's life on board the Angelica was
without a dull moment. And without an idle one; for he had accepted the
position of general utility, and the man-of-all-work is expected to do
everybody else's as well as his own. So it happened that while Sidcup,
for instance, who was the principal acrobat and trapeze man, lolled
through his day with a pipe in his mouth, and only lending an occasional
hand, when necessity compelled him, Dene was in request everywhere.
Fortunately he was as strong as a modern Hercules, quick and alert in
his movements, and, now that he was free from the terror which had
overthrown him at Brown's Buildings, was of his wonted cheerfulness.
Fortunately, also, he was a good sailor, and did not go under with the
sea-sickness which soon prostrated nearly all the other members of the
company. For they ran into bad weather, and once or twice, when the
storm was at its worst, scenes occurred which would need the pen of a
Joseph Conrad or a Morley Roberts to describe adequately; I will not
attempt to do so.
The rickety old tub, straining in every plate, rolled and pitched and
tossed all ways at once, like an hysterical cat, and the discomfort in
which they had started rose, or rather sank, to absolute misery. Like
most strong men, Derrick had the heart of a woman towards anyone in pain
or trouble. There was no doctor; the so-called stewards were quite
unable to cope with the well-nigh general suffering, and Derrick, in
some marvellous way, found time to bear a hand. There is no doubt that,
in any case, he would have been popular; but in the present
circumstances he stepped at once into the position of first friend with
the men, and became a hero and a little tin god in the regard of the
women; and as to the children--for there were three or four in the
company, young acrobats and riders--they watched for his coming, and
clung to him and adored him with their pathetic eyes, as if their
present and future safety and happiness were dependent on him. Often, in
the middle of the night, he would be awakened by the wail of a child,
and with eyes still half closed, and his mind only half awake, would
make his way to it, give it a drink, and sometimes fall asleep with the
poor little thing nestled up against him. To them he was no longer "Mr.
Green," but "Syd," or "Dear Syddie," and they fought for a word and
schemed for a smile from him.