"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.