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'Yes, sir,' and Thomas Mugridge fled swiftly aft and disappeared down another companionway near the wheel. A moment later he emerged, a heavy-set young fellow of eighteen or nineteen, with a glowering, villainous countenance, trailing at his heels. ¡¡¡¡''Ere 'e, is, sir,' the cook said. ¡¡¡¡But Wolf Larsen ignored that worthy, turning at once to the cabin-boy. ¡¡¡¡'What's your name, boy?' ¡¡¡¡'George Leach, sir,' came the sullen answer, and the boy's bearing showed clearly that he divined the reason for which he had been summoned. ¡¡¡¡'Not an Irish name,' the captain snapped sharply
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. 'O'Toole or McCarthy would suit your mug a-sight better. ¡¡¡¡'But let that go,' he continued. 'You may have very good reasons for forgetting your name, and I'll like you none the worse for it as long as you toe the mark. Telegraph Hill, of course, is your port of entry. It sticks out all over your mug. Tough as they make them and twice as nasty. I know the kind. Well, you can make up your mind to have it taken out of you on this craft. Understand? Who shipped you, anyway?' ¡¡¡¡'McCready & Swanson.' ¡¡¡¡'Sir!' Wolf Larsen thundered.