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.” “And what about me?” said Bradd. “You’re the mate,” said Zingall, “and mind, for your own sake, you act up to it. If you don’t cross him I haven’t any doubt it’ll be all right, but if you do he’ll very likely murder you in a fit of frenzy, and—he wouldn’t be responsible. Goodnight.” “You’re not going?” said Bradd, clutching him by the sleeve. “I am,” said the other. “He seems to have took a violent dislike to me, and if I stay here it’ll only make him worse.” He ran lightly up on deck, and avoiding an ugly rush on the part of the mate, who had been listening, sprang on to the ladder and hastily clambered ashore. The skipper, worn and scared, looked up as the bogus skipper came below. “I’m going to bed, George,” said the mate, staring at him. “I feel a bit heavy. Give me a call just afore high water.” “Where are you goin’ to sleep?” demanded the skipper. “Goin’ to sleep?” said the mate, “why, in my state-room, to be sure.” He took the empty bottle from the table, and opening the door of the state-room, closed it in the face of its frenzied owner, and turned the key in the lock. Then he leaned over the berth, and, cramming the pillow against his mouth, gave way to his feelings until he was nearly suffocated. Any idea that the skipper might have had of the healing effects of sleep were rudely dispelled when the mate came on deck next morning, and found that they had taken the schooner out without arousing him. His delusion seemed to be stronger than ever, and pushing the skipper from the wheel he took it himself, and read him a short and sharp lecture on the virtues of obedience. “I know you’re a good sort, George Smith,” he said, leniently, “nobody could wish for a better, but while I’m master of this here ship it don’t become you to take things upon yourself in the way you do.” “But you don’t understand,” said the skipper, trying to conquer his temper. “Now look me in the eye, George.” “Who are you calling George?” said the mate sharply. “Well, look me in the eye, then,” said the skipper, waiving the point.