me, Nick Baba. Why, you silly fellow, the sharpest tool on your bench
cannot draw blood from me, and that blackened lapstone, if driven with
all the force of your great arm through my seeming substance, would
leave me sitting here still, not to mock, but to try and save you."

The baffled and stricken shoemaker looked up and muttered. "Then you
are not human, you are a demon. But, after all," added Nick,
softening, "whether you are of this world or of some other, you are
right in what you say."

The Goblin made no reply, and Nick continued, "I have sunk very low,
indeed, but I cannot shake this habit; it clings to me so firmly, that
I have not only forfeited the regard of my neighbors and friends, but
I even loathe myself."

"Why not make an effort, Nick? You can if you will."

"Yes, yes," responded Nick, "it is easy enough to say give it up, but
you have never felt this accursed appetite for strong drink; this
constant craving for more; this inward sinking sensation, as if the
parts of the body were about to separate, impelling the victim on in a
career of sin and shame. You know nothing of all this."

"No, I confess I do not," acknowledged the Goblin, "but I think any
man may resist it, if he will make the trial."

"Ah, you might as soon expect," pursued Nick, "to see the starving man
cast bread from him, as to hope for the drunkard to resist liquor when
the frenzy of this appetite is on him."