I nodded and took out my handkerchief. “I got hit with a snowball,” I said. “One of those very icy ones.” I probably would’ve told her what really happened, but it would’ve taken too long. I liked her, though. I was beginning to feel sort of sorry I’d told her my name was Rudolf Schmidt. “Old Ernie,” I said. “He’s one of the most popular boys at Pencey. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

I nodded. “It really took everybody quite a long time to get to know him. He’s a funny guy. A strange guy, in lots of ways—know what I mean? Like when I first met him. When I first met him, I thought he was kind of a snobbish person. That’s what I thought. But he isn’t. He’s just got this very original personality that takes you a little while to get to know him.”

Old Mrs. Morrow didn’t say anything, but boy, you should’ve seen her. I had her glued to her seat. You take somebody’s mother, all they want to hear about is what a hot-shot their son is.

Then I really started chucking the old crap around. “Did he tell you about the elections?” I asked her. “The class elections?”

She shook her head. I had her in a trance, like. I really did.

“Well, a bunch of us wanted old Ernie to be president of the class. I mean he was the unanimous choice. I mean he was the only boy that could really handle the job,” I said—boy, was I chucking it. “But this other boy—Harry Fencer—was elected. And the reason he was elected, the simple and obvious reason, was because Ernie wouldn’t let us nominate him. Because he’s so darn shy and modest and all. He refused… Boy, he’s really shy. You oughta make him try to get over that.” I looked at her. “Didn’t he tell you about it?”

“No, he didn’t.”

I nodded. “That’s Ernie. He wouldn’t. That’s the one fault with him—he’s too shy and modest. You really oughta get him to try to relax occasionally.”

Right that minute, the conductor came around for old Mrs. Morrow’s ticket, and it gave me a chance to quit shooting it. I’m glad I shot it for a while, though. You take a guy like Morrow that’s always snapping their towel at people’s asses—really trying to hurt somebody with it—they don’t just stay a rat while they’re a kid. They stay a rat their whole life. But I’ll bet, after all the crap I shot, Mrs. Morrow’ll keep thinking of him now as this very shy, modest guy that wouldn’t let us nominate him for president. She might. You can’t tell. Mothers aren’t too sharp about that stuff.

“Would you care for a cocktail?” I asked her. I was feeling in the mood for one myself. “We can go in the club car. All right?”

“Dear, are you allowed to order drinks?” she asked me. Not snotty, though. She was too charming and all to be snotty.

“Well, no, not exactly, but I can usually get them on account of my heighth,” I said. “And I have quite a bit of gray hair.” I turned sideways and showed her my gray hair. It fascinated hell out of her. “C’mon, join me, why don’t you?” I said. I’d’ve enjoyed having her.

“I really don’t think I’d better. Thank you so much, though, dear,” she said. “Anyway, the club car’s most likely closed. It’s quite late, you know.” She was right. I’d forgotten all about what time it was.

Then she looked at me and asked me what I was afraid she was going to ask me. “Ernest wrote that he’d be home on Wednesday, that Christmas vacation would start on Wednesday,” she said. “I hope you weren’t called home suddenly because of illness in the family.” She really looked worried about it. She wasn’t just being nosy, you could tell.

“No, everybody’s fine at home,” I said. “It’s me. I have to have this operation.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” she said. She really was, too. I was right away sorry I’d said it, but it was too late.

“It isn’t very serious. I have this tiny little tumor on the brain.”

“Oh, no!” She put her hand up to her mouth and all. “Oh, I’ll be all right and everything! It’s right near the outside. And it’s a very tiny one. They can take it out in about two minutes.”

Then I started reading this timetable I had in my pocket. Just to stop lying. Once I get started, I can go on for hours if I feel like it. No kidding. Hours.

We didn’t talk too much after that. She started reading this Vogue she had with her, and I looked out the window for a while. She got off at Newark. She wished me a lot of luck with the operation and all. She kept calling me Rudolf. Then she invited me to visit Ernie during the summer, at Gloucester, Massachusetts. She said their house was right on the beach, and they had a tennis court and all, but I just thanked her and told her I was going to South America with my grandmother. Which was really a hot one, because my grandmother hardly ever even goes out of the house, except maybe to go to a goddam matinee or something. But I wouldn’t visit that sonuvabitch Morrow for all the dough in the world, even if I was desperate.

The first thing I did when I got off at Penn Station, I went into this phone booth. I felt like giving somebody a buzz. I left my bags right outside the booth so that I could watch them, but as soon as I was inside, I couldn’t think of anybody to call up. My brother D.B. was in Hollywood. My kid sister Phoebe goes to bed around nine o’clock—so I couldn’t call her up. She wouldn’t’ve cared if I’d woke her up, but the trouble was, she wouldn’t’ve been the one that answered the phone. My parents would be the ones. So that was out. Then I thought of giving Jane Gallagher’s mother a buzz, and find out when Jane’s vacation started, but I didn’t feel like it. Besides, it was pretty late to call up. Then I thought of calling this girl I used to go around with quite frequently, Sally Hayes, because I knew her Christmas vacation had started already—she’d written me this long, phony letter, inviting me over to help her trim the Christmas tree Christmas Eve and all—but I was afraid her mother’d answer the phone. Her mother knew my mother, and I could picture her breaking a goddam leg to get to the phone and tell my mother I was in New York. Besides, I wasn’t crazy about talking to old Mrs. Hayes on the phone. She once told Sally I was wild. She said I was wild and that I had no direction in life. Then I thought of calling up this guy that went to the Whooton School when I was there, Carl Luce, but I didn’t like him much. So I ended up not calling anybody. I came out of the booth, after about twenty minutes or so, and got my bags and walked over to that tunnel where the cabs are and got a cab.

I’m so damn absent-minded, I gave the driver my regular address, just out of habit and all—I mean I completely forgot I was going to shack up in a hotel for a couple of days and not go home till vacation started. I didn’t think of it till we were halfway through the park. Then I said, “Hey, do you mind turning around when you get a chance? I gave you the wrong address. I want to go back downtown.”

The driver was sort of a wise guy. “I can’t turn around here, Mac. This here’s a one-way. I’ll have to go all the way to Ninedieth Street now.”

I didn’t want to start an argument. “Okay,” I said. Then I thought of something, all of a sudden. “Hey, listen,” I said. “You know those ducks in that lagoon right near Central Park South? That little lake? By any chance, do you happen to know where they go, the ducks, when it gets all frozen over? Do you happen to know, by any chance?” I realized it was only one chance in a million.

He turned around and looked at me like I was a madman. “What’re ya tryna do, bud?” he said. “Kid me?”

“No—I was just interested, that’s all.”

He didn’t say anything more, so I didn’t either. Until we came out of the park at Ninetieth Street. Then he said, “All right, buddy. Where to?”

“Well, the thing is, I don’t want to stay at any hotels on the East Side where I might run into some acquaintances of mine. I’m traveling incognito,” I said. I hate saying corny things like “traveling incognito.” But when I’m with somebody that’s corny, I always act corny too. “Do you happen to know whose band’s at the Taft or the New Yorker, by any chance?”