Whatever his contemplations, it was plain, when he turned about, that the dark spirit was upon him again.
'Curse that punch,' said he, in language still more emphatic.

'You're like Mephistopheles in the play--you come in upon my quiet to draw me to my ruin.

'Twas the devil sent you here, to kill my soul, I believe; but you sha'n't.

_Drink_, will you ?--ay--I'll give you a draught--a draught of _air_ will cool you.

Drink to your heart's content.' And to Toole's consternation up went the window, and a hideous rush of eddying storm and snow whirled into the room.