from me and cried out, "Cooky! Oh, Cooky!"

The Cockney popped out of the galley.

"Where's that boy? Tell him I want him."

"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