Nick Babas Last Drink and Other Sketches | Page 2

"I was just thinking that if all the acts of your life had been as good and as humane as your mechanical skill is perfect, you would not now be floundering in the meshes of vice and dissipation. You are making a good pair of shoes there."
The shoemaker worked away without raising his head, but responded spitefully, "Where is the use of making them good?--I get no pay for them."
"Why, who," inquired the occupant of the three-legged stool, "is so ungenerous as to want such shoes without paying for them?"
"They are," answered the busy workman, "for the owner of this miserable shanty, and he complains because I am only six months behind with my rent--a most unreasonable man. If he does not get his shoes to-morrow, he will turn me out; I must have some place to work, and so am forced to do the bidding of this grasping landlord."
"Ah, it is you who are unreasoning," exclaimed Baba's visitor, sorrowfully; "it is you who are in fault. If you would but remain away from the tavern and the vile associates whom you meet there, all would be well with you, you might redeem yourself."
Nick felt this rebuke so very keenly that he turned savagely toward the one who had dared to tell him so plainly of his degradation, and demanded. "Who are you, and why have you disturbed the quiet of this mean hovel to insult me in my misery?"
"Because I wish to serve you," answered it of the waving brown hair.
"You cannot serve me. I will drive you out," threatened the now infuriated cobbler; "I will throw you from the window--I will kill you."
The red eyes of the Goblin danced and twinkled in their caverns; a merry, careless laugh came bubbling forth as it answered, "I will not leave your shop, nor will you throw me from the window, nor yet kill 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."
"But you have not tried, Nick."
"Yes, I have tried and failed, and tried again and then failed."
"Keep on trying," said velvet cap.
"A glass of liquor," resumed Baba, "is a trifling thing, and it is very easy, you think, to cast it into the gutter. But I tell you, whoever and whatever you are, that this sparkling and seductive drink is the pygmy that binds the giant to the post with a thread, and lashes him with thongs of fire.
"Try again," urged the Goblin, "I am sure you can regain all that you have lost."
"No, no," moaned Nick, "I am too low down; I am an absolute slave to rum."
"Baba," commanded the Goblin, "take up the shoe you have nearly finished, look into the sole and tell me what you see there. It is a mirror of the past."
Nick took the shoe from the floor and gazed at it intently for a few seconds. He was agitated, and his powerful breast heaved as only a strong man may be moved--he wept.
"What do you see? Speak!" said his tormentor.
"I see," responded Nick, mechanically, "a scene of seven years ago. It is the image of a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl before the altar in her wedding garments. I am there also, vowing to protect her; to stand up and battle with the world for her; to be a barrier between her and