"Yes, sir;" and Thomas Mugridge fled swiftly aft and disappeared down
another companion-way 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. "O'Toole or McCarthy
would suit your mug a damn sight better. Unless, very likely, there's an
Irishman in your mother's woodpile."

I saw the young fellow's hands clench at the insult, and the blood crawl
scarlet up his neck.

"But let that go," Wolf Larsen 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 and Swanson."

"Sir!" Wolf Larsen thundered.

"McCready and Swanson, sir," the boy corrected, his eyes burning with a
bitter light.

"Who got the advance money?"

"They did, sir."

"I thought as much. And damned glad you were to let them have it.
Couldn't make yourself scarce too quick, with several gentlemen you may
have heard of looking for you."

The boy metamorphosed into a savage on the instant. His body bunched
together as though for a spring, and his face became as an infuriated
beast's as he snarled, "It's a--"

"A what?" Wolf Larsen asked, a peculiar softness in his voice, as though
he were overwhelmingly curious to hear the unspoken word.

The boy hesitated, then mastered his temper. "Nothin', sir. I take it
back."

"And you have shown me I was right." This with a gratified smile. "How
old are you?"

"Just turned sixteen, sir,"

"A lie. You'll never see eighteen again. Big for your age at that, with
muscles like a horse. Pack up your kit and go for'ard into the fo'c'sle.
You're a boat-puller now. You're promoted; see?"

Without waiting for the boy's acceptance, the captain turned to the
sailor who had just finished the gruesome task of sewing