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.