Bartleby the Scrivener: A Tale of Wall Street

BENITO CERENO 111
like a man's, was manifest ; that boat, Rover by name,
which, though now in strange seas, had often pressed the
beach of Captain Delano's home, and, brought
to its
threshold for repairs, had familiarly lain there, as a Newfoundland
dog ; the sight of that household boat evoked
a thousand trustful associations, which, contrasted with
previous suspicions, filled him not only with lightsome
confidence, but somehow with half-humorous selfreproaches
at his former lack of it.
'
What, I, Amasa Delano—Jack of the Beach, as they
called me when a lad— I, Amasa ; the same that, duck-
satchel in hand, used to paddle along the water-side to
the school-house made from the old hulk— I, little Jack
of the Beach, that used to go berrying with cousin Nat
and the rest ; I to be murdered here at the ends of ]
the earth, on board a haunted pirate-ship by a horrible
Spaniard Who
? Too nonsensical to think of !
would
murder Amasa Delano ? His conscience is clean. There
is someone above. Fie, He, Jack of the Beach ! you
are a child indeed ; a child of the second childhood,
old boy ; you are beginning to dote and drule, I 'm
afraid.'
Light of heart and foot, he stepped aft, and there was
met by Don Benito's servant, who, with a pleasing
expression, responsive to his own present feelings, informed
him that his master had recovered from the
effects of his coughing fit, and had just ordered him to
go present his compliments to his good guest, Don
Amasa, and say that he (Don Benito) would soon have
the happiness to rejoin him.
There now, do you mark that ? again thought Captain
Delano, walking the poop. What a donkey I was.
This kind gentleman who here sends me his kind compliments,
he, but ten minutes ago, dark-lantern in hand,
was dodging round some old grindstone in the hold,