At first, Bartleby did an extraordinary quantity of writing.  As if long famishing for something to copy, he seemed to gorge himself on my documents.  There was no pause for digestion.  He ran a day and night line, copying by sun-light and by candle-light.  I should have been quite delighted with his application, had he been cheerfully industrious.  But he wrote on silently, palely, mechanically.

It is, of course, an indispensable part of a scrivener’s business to verify the accuracy of his copy, word by word.  Where there are two or more scriveners in an office, they assist each other in this examination, one reading from the copy, the other holding the original.  It is a very dull, wearisome, and lethargic affair.  I can readily imagine that, to some sanguine temperaments, it would be altogether intolerable.  For example, I cannot credit that the mettlesome poet, Byron, would have contentedly sat down with Bartleby to examine a law document of, say five hundred pages, closely written in a crimpy hand.

Now and then, in the haste of business, it had been my habit to assist in comparing some brief document myself, calling Turkey or Nippers for this purpose.  One object I had, in placing Bartleby so handy to me behind the screen, was, to avail myself of his services on such trivial occasions.  It was on the third day, I think, of his being with me, and before any necessity had arisen for having his own writing examined, that, being much hurried to complete a small affair I had in hand, I abruptly called to Bartleby.  In my haste and natural expectancy of instant compliance, I sat with my head bent over the original on my desk, and my right hand sideways, and somewhat nervously extended with the copy, so that, immediately upon emerging from his retreat, Bartleby might snatch it and proceed to business without the least delay.

In this very attitude did I sit when I called to him, rapidly stating what it was I wanted him to do—­namely, to examine a small paper with me.  Imagine my surprise, nay, my consternation, when, without moving from his privacy, Bartleby, in a singularly mild, firm voice, replied, “I would prefer not to.”

I sat awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties.  Immediately it occurred to me that my ears had deceived me, or Bartleby had entirely misunderstood my meaning.  I repeated my request in the clearest tone I could assume; but in quite as clear a one came the previous reply, “I would prefer not to.”

“Prefer not to,” echoed I, rising in high excitement, and crossing the room with a stride.  “What do you mean?  Are you moon-struck?  I want you to help me compare this sheet here—­take it,” and I thrust it towards him.

“I would prefer not to,” said he.