CHAPTER X
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.
Among the women were some who were quite young. Many of them were pretty, and not a few of them, naturally enough, fell in love with the good-looking young man who befriended them. Like the children, but with a different kind of ardour, they waited for his coming, and laid feminine snares for him. Two girls, to particularize, thought of little else than Sydney Green as they lay in their bunks, recovering from that horrible malady at which we all laugh, and all quail. One was a fair girl, named Alice Merton. She was one of the riders, and was extremely pretty, with blue eyes and a complexion like cream and roses. She was very slight and dainty, and looked fragile; but she was a very good equestrienne, and when on a horse displayed extraordinary nerve.
The other girl—her name was Isabel Devigne, a stage name, no doubt—was tall, dark-eyed, with the regular features and blue-black hair of a Spaniard. She also was a rider; she had been in the business—pardon! profession—since she could walk, and her experiences of life were many and peculiar. Perhaps because of their contrasting characteristics, she and Alice Merton had been drawn towards each other, and were fast friends. They occupied opposite bunks, walked and talked together, and were both in love with Sydney Green, who ministered to both, in his capacity of amateur ship doctor, with strict though unconscious impartiality.
Derrick was not of the susceptible genus, and, if he had been, he was too much driven by the incessant work to spare time for even the mildest flirtation. Besides, whenever he found time for thought, his mind always went back to a certain room in Brown's Buildings, far away in London, to a girl's face looking down at him from over the balustrade. He thought of her only; scarcely once had his mind wandered from her to Miriam, the girl he had loved, the girl for whom he had sacrificed himself. Sometimes, when he put his hand in his breast pocket, he could feel the five-pound note; and whenever he did so, back came the scene, and his heart grew warm.
The bad weather lasted for a week; then the storm abated, the sea grew calmer, and one morning the invalids began to crawl up to the deck.
Derrick, busy with the horses, some of which had suffered terribly, paused for a moment and looked at the wretched folk as they emerged from the companion-way. One of them was Alice Merton, and he was moved to such pity by the sight of her white face and evident weakness that he put down his curry-comb and brush and went to help her. Her face was flooded with colour as she raised her piteous blue eyes to him, and her hand shook as he drew it through his arm.