himself into the contracted space behind the screen, and by so doing,
making me jostle the scrivener. "What word, sir?"

"I would prefer to be left alone here," said Bartleby, as if offended at
being mobbed in his privacy.

"_That's_ the word, Turkey," said I--"that's it."

"Oh, _prefer_? oh yes--queer word. I never use it myself. But, sir, as
I was saying, if he would but prefer--"

"Turkey," interrupted I, "you will please withdraw."

"Oh certainly, sir, if you prefer that I should."

As he opened the folding-door to retire, Nippers at his desk caught a
glimpse of me, and asked whether I would prefer to have a certain paper
copied on blue paper or white. He did not in the least roguishly accent
the word prefer. It was plain that it involuntarily rolled form his
tongue. I thought to myself, surely I must get rid of a demented man,
who already has in some degree turned the tongues, if not the heads of
myself and clerks. But I thought it prudent not to break the dismission
at once.

The next day I noticed that Bartleby did nothing but stand at his window
in his dead-wall revery. Upon asking him why he did not write, he said
that he had decided upon doing no more writing.

"Why, how now? what next?" exclaimed I, "do no more writing?"