{"id":"01KG8AKT57JG0XYFVQFX39BGFR","cid":"bafkreigx6yos6chkcpwjryfg4p5mzcd6mutgz64fsafh7ic5zqekigjwru","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":1668,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:15.023Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 2","source_file":"01KG89J1F4D8P9BBX9AMGZ7TX7","start_line":1594,"text":"After breakfast, I walked down town, arguing the probabilities _pro_\r\nand _con_. One moment I thought it would prove a miserable failure, and\r\nBartleby would be found all alive at my office as usual; the next\r\nmoment it seemed certain that I should find his chair empty. And so I\r\nkept veering about. At the corner of Broadway and Canal street, I saw\r\nquite an excited group of people standing in earnest conversation.\r\n\r\n“I’ll take odds he doesn’t,” said a voice as I passed.\r\n\r\n“Doesn’t go?—done!” said I, “put up your money.”\r\n\r\nI was instinctively putting my hand in my pocket to produce my own,\r\nwhen I remembered that this was an election day. The words I had\r\noverheard bore no reference to Bartleby, but to the success or\r\nnon-success of some candidate for the mayoralty. In my intent frame of\r\nmind, I had, as it were, imagined that all Broadway shared in my\r\nexcitement, and were debating the same question with me. I passed on,\r\nvery thankful that the uproar of the street screened my momentary\r\nabsent-mindedness.\r\n\r\nAs I had intended, I was earlier than usual at my office door. I stood\r\nlistening for a moment. All was still. He must be gone. I tried the\r\nknob. The door was locked. Yes, my procedure had worked to a charm; he\r\nindeed must be vanished. Yet a certain melancholy mixed with this: I\r\nwas almost sorry for my brilliant success. I was fumbling under the\r\ndoor mat for the key, which Bartleby was to have left there for me,\r\nwhen accidentally my knee knocked against a panel, producing a\r\nsummoning sound, and in response a voice came to me from within—“Not\r\nyet; I am occupied.”\r\n\r\nIt was Bartleby.\r\n\r\nI was thunderstruck. For an instant I stood like the man who, pipe in\r\nmouth, was killed one cloudless afternoon long ago in Virginia, by\r\nsummer lightning; at his own warm open window he was killed, and\r\nremained leaning out there upon the dreamy afternoon till some one\r\ntouched him, when he fell.\r\n\r\n“Not gone!” I murmured at last. But again obeying that wondrous\r\nascendancy which the inscrutable scrivener had over me, and from which\r\nascendancy, for all my chafing, I could not completely escape, I slowly\r\nwent down stairs and out into the street, and while walking round the\r\nblock, considered what I should next do in this unheard-of perplexity.\r\nTurn the man out by an actual thrusting I could not; to drive him away\r\nby calling him hard names would not do; calling in the police was an\r\nunpleasant idea; and yet, permit him to enjoy his cadaverous triumph\r\nover me—this, too, I could not think of. What was to be done? or, if\r\nnothing could be done, was there anything further that I could _assume_\r\nin the matter? Yes, as before I had prospectively assumed that Bartleby\r\nwould depart, so now I might retrospectively assume that departed he\r\nwas. In the legitimate carrying out of this assumption, I might enter\r\nmy office in a great hurry, and pretending not to see Bartleby at all,\r\nwalk straight against him as if he were air. Such a proceeding would in\r\na singular degree have the appearance of a home-thrust. It was hardly\r\npossible that Bartleby could withstand such an application of the\r\ndoctrine of assumptions. But upon second thoughts the success of the\r\nplan seemed rather dubious. I resolved to argue the matter over with\r\nhim again.\r\n\r\n“Bartleby,” said I, entering the office, with a quietly severe\r\nexpression, “I am seriously displeased. I am pained, Bartleby. I had\r\nthought better of you. I had imagined you of such a gentlemanly\r\norganization, that in any delicate dilemma a slight hint would\r\nsuffice—in short, an assumption. But it appears I am deceived. Why,” I\r\nadded, unaffectedly starting, “you have not even touched that money\r\nyet,” pointing to it, just where I had left it the evening previous.\r\n\r\nHe answered nothing.\r\n\r\n“Will you, or will you not, quit me?” I now demanded in a sudden\r\npassion, advancing close to him.\r\n\r\n“I would prefer _not_ to quit you,” he replied gently emphasizing the\r\n_not_.\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 2"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AK419VG3PDA1PZZFDBDN6","peer_type":"section","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J1F4D8P9BBX9AMGZ7TX7","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AKT5797MX4V9N0BP1QBPG","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"prev"},{"peer":"01KG8AKT5CFWX2PGAAM0QTJ8T6","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:16.551Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:23.317Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}