“Bartleby!”

“I know you,” he said, without looking round—­“and I want nothing to say to you.”

“It was not I that brought you here, Bartleby,” said I, keenly pained at his implied suspicion.  “And to you, this should not be so vile a place.  Nothing reproachful attaches to you by being here.  And see, it is not so sad a place as one might think.  Look, there is the sky, and here is the grass.”

“I know where I am,” he replied, but would say nothing more, and so I left him.

As I entered the corridor again, a broad meat-like man, in an apron, accosted me, and, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, said—­“Is that your friend?”

“Yes.”

“Does he want to starve?  If he does, let him live on the prison fare, that’s all.”

“Who are you?” asked I, not knowing what to make of such an unofficially speaking person in such a place.

“I am the grub-man.  Such gentlemen as have friends here, hire me to provide them with something good to eat.”

“Is this so?” said I, turning to the turnkey.

He said it was.

“Well, then,” said I, slipping some silver into the grub-man’s hands (for so they called him), “I want you to give particular attention to my friend there; let him have the best dinner you can get.  And you must be as polite to him as possible.”

“Introduce me, will you?” said the grub-man, looking at me with an expression which seem to say he was all impatience for an opportunity to give a specimen of his breeding.

Thinking it would prove of benefit to the scrivener, I acquiesced; and, asking the grub-man his name, went up with him to Bartleby.

“Bartleby, this is a friend; you will find him very useful to you.”

“Your sarvant, sir, your sarvant,” said the grub-man, making a low salutation behind his apron.  “Hope you find it pleasant here, sir; nice grounds—­cool apartments—­hope you’ll stay with us some time—­try to make it agreeable.  What will you have for dinner to-day?”

“I prefer not to dine to-day,” said Bartleby, turning away.  “It would disagree with me; I am unused to dinners.”  So saying, he slowly moved to the other side of the inclosure, and took up a position fronting the dead-wall.

“How’s this?” said the grub-man, addressing me with a stare of astonishment.  “He’s odd, ain’t he?”

“I think he is a little deranged,” said I, sadly.

“Deranged? deranged is it?  Well, now, upon my word, I thought that friend of yourn was a gentleman forger; they are always pale, and genteel-like, them forgers.  I can’t help pity ’em—­can’t help it, sir.  Did you know Monroe Edwards?” he added, touchingly, and paused.  Then, laying his hand piteously on my shoulder, sighed, “he died of consumption at Sing-Sing.  So you weren’t acquainted with Monroe?”

“No, I was never socially acquainted with any forgers.  But I cannot stop longer.  Look to my friend yonder.  You will not lose by it.  I will see you again.”