The skipper flew to the assistance of his friend, but the mate, who was of gigantic strength and stature, simply backed, and crushed him against a bulkhead. Then, as if satisfied, he released the crestfallen Zingall, and stood looking at him.
“Why—don’t—you—bring—him—round?” panted the skipper.
“He’s out of my control,” said Zingall, rising nimbly to his feet. “I’ve heard of such cases before. I’m only new at the work, you know, but I dare say, in a couple of years’ time—”
The skipper howled at him, and the mate, suddenly alive again to the obnoxious presence of the crew, drove them up the companion ladder, and pursued them to the forecastle.
“This is a pretty kettle o’ fish,” said Bradd, indignantly. “Why don’t you bring him round?”
“Because I can’t,” said Zingall, shortly. “It’ll have to wear off.”
“Wear off!” repeated the skipper.
“He’s under a delusion now,” said Zingall, “an’ o’ course I can’t say how long it’ll last, but whatever you do don’t cross him in any way.”
“Oh, don’t cross him,” repeated Bradd, with sarcastic inflection, “and you call yourself a mesmerist.”
Zingall drew himself up with a little pride. “Well, see what I’ve done,” he said. “The fact is, I was charged full with electricity when I came aboard, and he’s got it all now. It’s left me weak, and until my will wears off him he’s captain o’ this ship.”