The great
point was, not whether I had assumed that he would quit me, but whether
he would prefer so to do. He was more a man of preferences than
assumptions.
After breakfast, I walked down town, arguing the probabilities _pro_ and
_con_. One moment I thought it would prove a miserable failure, and
Bartleby would be found all alive at my office as usual; the next moment
it seemed certain that I should see his chair empty. And so I kept
veering about. At the corner of Broadway and Canal-street, I saw quite
an excited group of people standing in earnest conversation.
"I'll take odds he doesn't," said a voice as I passed.
"Doesn't go?--done!" said I, "put up your money."
I was instinctively putting my hand in my pocket to produce my own, when
I remembered that this was an election day. The words I had overheard
bore no reference to Bartleby, but to the success or non-success of some
candidate for the mayoralty. In my intent frame of mind, I had, as it
were, imagined that all Broadway shared in my excitement, and were
debating the same question with me.
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