At any rate, upon the occasion in question, I strove
to drown my exasperated feelings towards the scrivener by benevolently
construing his conduct. Poor fellow, poor fellow! thought I, he don't
mean any thing; and besides, he has seen hard times, and ought to be
indulged.
I endeavored also immediately to occupy myself, and at the same time to
comfort my despondency. I tried to fancy that in the course of the
morning, at such time as might prove agreeable to him. Bartleby, of his
own free accord, would emerge from his hermitage, and take up some
decided line of march in the direction of the door. But no. Half-past
twelve o'clock came; Turkey began to glow in the face, overturn his
inkstand, and become generally obstreperous; Nippers abated down into
quietude and courtesy; Ginger Nut munched his noon apple; and Bartleby
remained standing at his window in one of his profoundest dead-wall
reveries. Will it be credited? Ought I to acknowledge it? That
afternoon I left the office without saying one further word to him.
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