“Sit down, Turkey,” said I, “and hear what Nippers has to say.  What do you think of it, Nippers?  Would I not be justified in immediately dismissing Bartleby?”

“Excuse me, that is for you to decide, sir.  I think his conduct quite unusual, and, indeed, unjust, as regards Turkey and myself.  But it may only be a passing whim.”

“Ah,” exclaimed I, “you have strangely changed your mind, then—­you speak very gently of him now.”

“All beer,” cried Turkey; “gentleness is effects of beer—­Nippers and I dined together to-day.  You see how gentle I am, sir.  Shall I go and black his eyes?”

“You refer to Bartleby, I suppose.  No, not to-day, Turkey,” I replied; “pray, put up your fists.”

I closed the doors, and again advanced towards Bartleby.  I felt additional incentives tempting me to my fate.  I burned to be rebelled against again.  I remembered that Bartleby never left the office.

“Bartleby,” said I, “Ginger Nut is away; just step around to the Post Office, won’t you? (it was but a three minutes’ walk), and see if there is anything for me.”

“I would prefer not to.”

“You will not?”

“I prefer not.”

I staggered to my desk, and sat there in a deep study.  My blind inveteracy returned.  Was there any other thing in which I could procure myself to be ignominiously repulsed by this lean, penniless wight?—­my hired clerk?  What added thing is there, perfectly reasonable, that he will be sure to refuse to do?

“Bartleby!”

No answer.

“Bartleby,” in a louder tone.

No answer.

“Bartleby,” I roared.

Like a very ghost, agreeably to the laws of magical invocation, at the third summons, he appeared at the entrance of his hermitage.

“Go to the next room, and tell Nippers to come to me.”

“I prefer not to,” he respectfully and slowly said, and mildly disappeared.

“Very good, Bartleby,” said I, in a quiet sort of serenely-severe self-possessed tone, intimating the unalterable purpose of some terrible retribution very close at hand.  At the moment I half intended something of the kind.  But upon the whole, as it was drawing towards my dinner-hour, I thought it best to put on my hat and walk home for the day, suffering much from perplexity and distress of mind.

Shall I acknowledge it?  The conclusion of this whole business was, that it soon became a fixed fact of my chambers, that a pale young scrivener, by the name of Bartleby, had a desk there; that he copied for me at the usual rate of four cents a folio (one hundred words); but he was permanently exempt from examining the work done by him, that duty being transferred to Turkey and Nippers, out of compliment, doubtless, to their superior acuteness; moreover, said Bartleby was never, on any account, to be dispatched on the most trivial errand of any sort; and that even if entreated to take upon him such a matter, it was generally understood that he would “prefer not to”—­in other words, that he would refuse point-blank.