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- 1468
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T07:57:34.136Z
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- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 1387
- text
- wished me to appear at that place, and make a suitable statement of the
facts. These tidings had a conflicting effect upon me. At first I was
indignant; but at last almost approved. The landlord’s energetic,
summary disposition had led him to adopt a procedure which I do not
think I would have decided upon myself; and yet as a last resort, under
such peculiar circumstances, it seemed the only plan.
As I afterwards learned, the poor scrivener, when told that he must be
conducted to the Tombs, offered not the slightest obstacle, but in his
pale unmoving way, silently acquiesced.
Some of the compassionate and curious bystanders joined the party; and
headed by one of the constables arm in arm with Bartleby, the silent
procession filed its way through all the noise, and heat, and joy of
the roaring thoroughfares at noon.
The same day I received the note I went to the Tombs, or to speak more
properly, the Halls of Justice. Seeking the right officer, I stated the
purpose of my call, and was informed that the individual I described
was indeed within. I then assured the functionary that Bartleby was a
perfectly honest man, and greatly to be compassionated, however
unaccountably eccentric. I narrated all I knew, and closed by
suggesting the idea of letting him remain in as indulgent confinement
as possible till something less harsh might be done—though indeed I
hardly knew what. At all events, if nothing else could be decided upon,
the alms-house must receive him. I then begged to have an interview.
Being under no disgraceful charge, and quite serene and harmless in all
his ways, they had permitted him freely to wander about the prison, and
especially in the inclosed grass-platted yard thereof. And so I found
him there, standing all alone in the quietest of the yards, his face
towards a high wall, while all around, from the narrow slits of the
jail windows, I thought I saw peering out upon him the eyes of
murderers and thieves.
“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 seemed 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 Mr. Cutlets; you will find him very useful to you.”
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