"No," I said, "goodbye, sir. Take it easy with your grippe now."

"Yes," he said, shaking hands with me again. "Goodbye, boy."

He called something after me while I was leaving, but I couldn't hear him. I think it was good luck. I really felt sorry for him. I knew what he was thinking: how young I was, how I didn't know anything about the world and all, what happened to guys like me and all. I probably got him down for a while after I left, but I'll bet later on he talked me over with Mrs. Spencer and felt better, and he probably had Mrs. Spencer hand him his Atlantic Monthly before she left the room.

It was after one that night when I got home, because I shot the bull for around a half hour with Pete, the elevator boy. He was telling me all about his brother-in-law. His brother-in-law is a cop, and he shot a guy; he didn't need to, but he did it to be a big shot, and now Pete's sister didn't like to be around Pete's brother-in-law any more. It was tough. I didn't feel so sorry for Pete's sister, but I felt sorry for Pete's brother-in-law, the poor slob.

Jeannette, our colored maid, let me in. I lost my key somewhere. She was wearing one of those aluminum jobs in her hair, guaranteed to remove the kink.

"What choo doin' home, boy?" she said. "What choo doin' home, boy?" She says everything twice.

I was pretty sick and tired of people calling me "boy," so I just said, "Where are the folks?"

"They playin' bridge," she said. "They playin' bridge. What choo doin' home, boy?"

"I cam home for the race," I said.

"What race?" the doe said.

"The human race. Ha, ha, ha," I said. I dropped my bags and coat in the hall and got away from her. I shoved my hat on the back of my head, feeling pretty good for a change, and walked down the hall and opened Phoebe and Viola's door. It was pretty dark, even with the door open,,, and I nearly broke my neck getting over to Phoebe's bed.

I sat down on her bed. She was asleep, all right.

"Phoebe," I said. "Hey, Phoebe!"

She waked up pretty easily.

"Holden!" she said anxiously. "What are you doing home? What's the matter? What happened?"

"Aah, the same old stuff," I said. "What's new?"

"Holdie, what are you doing home?" she said. She's only ten, but when she wants an answer she wants an answer.

"What's the matter with your arm?" I asked her. I noticed a hunk of adhesive tape on her arm.

"I banged it on the wardrobe doors," she said. "Miss Keefe made me Monitor of the Wardrobe. I'm in charge of everybody's garments." But she got right back to it again. "Holdie," she said, "what are you doing home?"

She sounds like a goody-good, but it was only when it came to me. That's because she likes me. She's no goody-good, though. Phoebe's strictly one of us, for a kid.

"I'll be back in a minute," I told her, and I went back in the living room and got some cigarettes out of one of the boxes, put them in my pocket; then I went back. Phoebe was sitting up straight, looking fine. I sat down on her bed again..

"I got kicked out again," I told her.

"Holden!" she said, "Daddy'll kill you."

"I couldn't help it, Phoeb," I said. "They kept shoving stuff at me, exams and all, and study periods, and everything was compulsory all the time. I was going crazy. I just didn't like it."

"But, Holden," Phoebe said, "you don't like anything." She really looked worried.

"Yes, I do. Yes, I do. Don't say that, Phoeb," I said. "I like a heck of a lot of stuff."

Phoebe said, "What? Name one thing."

"I don't know. Gosh, I don't know," I told her. "I can't think any more today. I like girls I haven't met yet; girls that you can just see the backs of their heads, a few seats ahead of you on the train. I like a million things. I like sitting here with you. No kidding, Phoeb. I like just sitting her with you."

"Go to bed, Viola," Phoebe said. Viola was up. "She squeezes right out through the bars," Phoebe told me.

I picked up Viola and sat her on my lap. A crazy kid if ever there was one, but strictly one of us.

"Holdie," Viola said, "make Jeannette give me Donald Duck."

"Viola insulted Jeannette, and Jeannette took away her Donald Duck," Phoebe said.

"Her breath is always all the time bad," Viola told me.

"Her breath," Phoebe said. "She told Jeannette her breath was bad. When Jeannette was putting on her leggings."

"Jeannette breathes on me all the time," Viola said, standing on me.

I asked Viola if she had missed me, but she looked as though she weren't sure whether or not I'd been away.

"Go on back to bed no, Viola," Phoebe said. "She squeezes right out through the bars."

"Jeannette breathes on me all the time and she took away Donald Duck," Viola told me again.

"Holden'll get it back," Phoebe told her. Phoebe wasn't like other kids. She didn't take sides with the maid.

I got up and carried Viola back to her crib and put her in it. She asked me to bring her something, but I couldn't understand her.

"Ovvels," Phoebe said. "Olives. She's crazy about olives now. She wants to eat olives all the time. She rang the elevator bell when Jeannette was out this afternoon and had Pete open up a can of olives for her."

"Ovvels," Viola said. "Bring ovvels, Holdie."

"Okay," I said.

"With the red in them," Viola said.

I told her okay, and said to go to sleep. I tucked her in, then I started to go back where Phoebe was, only I stopped so short it almost hurt. I heard them come in.

"That's them!" Phoebe whispered. "I can hear Daddy!"

I nodded, and walked toward the door. I took off my hat.

"Holdie!" Phoebe whispered at me. "Tell 'em how sorry you are. All that stuff. and how you'll do better next time!"

I just nodded.

"Come back!" Phoebe said. "I'll stay awake!"

I went out and shut the door. I wished I had hung up my coat and put away my bags. I knew they'd tell me how much the coat cost and how people tripped over bags and broke their necks.

When they were all done with me I sent back to the kids' room. Phoebe was asleep, and I watched her a while. Nice kid. Then I went over to Viola's crib. I lifted her blanket and put her Donald Duck in there with her; then I took some olives I had in my left hand and laid them on by one in a row along the railing of her crib. One of them fell on the floor. I picked it up, felt dust on it, and put it in my jacket pocket. Then I left the room.

I went into my own room, turned the radio on, but it was broken. So I went to bed.

I lay awake for a pretty long time, feeling lousy. I knew everybody was right and I was wrong. I knew that I wasn't going to one of those successful guys, that I was never going to be like Edward Gonzales or Theodore Fisher or Lawrence Meyer. I knew that this time when Father said that I was going to work in that man's office that he meant it, that I wasn't going back to school again ever, that I wouldn't like working in an office. I started wondering again where the ducks in Central Park went when the lagoon was frozen over, and finally I went to sleep.

Last Day of the Last Furlough.

J. D. Salinger.

Technical Sergeant John F. Gladwaller, Jr., ASN 32325200, had on a pair of gray-flannel slacks, a white shirt with the collar open, Argyle socks, brown brogues and a dark brown hat with a black band. He had his feet up on his desk, a pack of cigarettes within reach, and any minute his mother was coming in with a piece of chocolate cake and a glass of milk.

Books were all over the floor--opened books, closed books, best sellers, worst sellers, classic books, dated books, Christmas-present books, library books, borrowed books.

At the moment, the sergeant was at the studio of Mihailov, the painter, with Anna Karenina and Count Vronsky. A few minutes ago he had stood with Father Zossima and Alyosha Karamazov on the portico below the monastery. An hour ago he had crossed the great sad lawns belonging to Jay Gatsby, born James Gatz. Now the sergeant tried to go through Mihailov's studio quickly, to make time to stop at the corner of Fifth and 46th Street. He and a big cop named Ben Collins were expecting a girl named Edith Dole to drive by. . . . There were so many people the sergeant wanted to see again, so many places worth ---- "Here we are!" said his mother, coming in with the cake and milk.

Too late, he thought. Time's up. Maybe I can take them with me. Sir, I've brought my books. I won't shoot anybody just yet. You fellas go ahead. I'll wait here with the books.

"Oh, thanks, mother," he said, coming out of Mihailov's studio. "That looks swell."

His mother set down the tray on his desk. "The milk is ice cold," she said, giving it a build-up, which always amused him. Then she sat down on the foot-stool by his chair, watching her son's face, watching his thin, familiar hand pick up the fork--watching, watching, loving.

He took a bite of the cake and washed it down with milk. It was ice cold. Not bad. "Not bad," he commented.

"It's been on the ice since this morning," his mother said, happy with the negative compliment. "Dear, what time is the Corfield boy coming?"

"Caulfield. He's not a boy, mother. He's twenty-nine. I'm going to meet the six-o'clock train. Do we have any gas?"

"No, don't believe so, but your father said to tell you that the coupons are in the compartment. There's enough for six gallons of gas, he said." Mrs. Gladwaller suddenly discovered the condition of the floor. "Babe, you will pick up those books before you go out, won't you?"

"M'm'm," said Babe unenthusiastically, with a mouthful of cake. He swallowed it and took another drink of milk--boy, it was cold. "What time's Mattie get out of school?" he asked.

"About three o'clock, I think. Oh, Babe, please call for her! She'll get such a kick out of it. In your uniform and all."

"Can't wear the uniform," Babe said, munching. "Gonna take the sled."

"The sled?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, goodness gracious! A twenty-four-year-old boy."

Babe stood up, picked up his glass and drank the last of the milk--the stuff was really cold. Then he side-stepped through his books on the floor, like a halfback in pseudo-slow motion, and went to his window. He raised it high.

"Babe, you'll catch your death of cold."

"Naa."

He scooped up a handful of snow from the sill and packed it into a ball; it was the right kind for packing, not too dry.

"You've been so sweet to Mattie," his mother remarked thoughtfully.

"Good kid," Babe said.

"What did the Corfield boy do before he was in the Army?"

"Caulfield. He directed three radio programs: I Am Lydia Moore, Quest for Life, and Marcia Steele, M.D."

"I listen to I Am Lydia Moore all the time," said Mrs. Gladwaller excitedly. "She's a girl veterinarian."

"He's a writer too."

"Oh, a writer! That's nice for you. Is he awfully sophisticated?"

The snowball in his hands was beginning to drip. Babe tossed it out the window. "He's a fine guy," he said. He has a kid brother in the Army who flunked out of a lot of schools. He talks about him a lot. Always pretending to pass him off as a nutty kid."

"Babe, close the window. Please," Mrs. Gladwaller said.

Babe closed the window and walked over to his closet. He opened it casually. All his suits were hung up, but he couldn't see them because they were enveloped in tar paper. He wondered if he would ever wear them again. Vanity, he thought, thy name is Gladwaller. All the girls on a million busses, on a million streets, at a million noisy parties, who had never seen him in that white coat Doc Weber and Mrs. Weber brought him from Bermuda. Even Frances had never seen it. He ought to have a chance to come in some room where she was, wearing that white coat. He always felt he looked so homely, that his nose was bigger and longer than ever, when he was around her. But that white coat. He'd have killed her in that white coat.

"I had your white coat cleaned and pressed before I put it away," his mother said, as though reading his thoughts--which irritated him slightly.

He put on his navy-blue sleeveless sweater over his shirt, then his suede windbreaker. "Where's the sled, mom?" he asked.

"In the garage, I suppose," his mother said.

Babe walked past where she still sat on the footstool , where she still sat watching, loving. He slapped her gently on the upper arm. "See ya later. Stay sober," he said.

"Stay sober!"