"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.