When Stradlater returns from his date with Jane Gallagher, he is in a terrible mood.
He asks about the essay, and Holden gives it to him.
When he reads about Allie’s baseball mitt, Stradlater freaks out and tells Holden he does not do anything right.
All of a sudden, he said, "For Chrissake, Holden. This is about a goddam baseball glove."
"So what?" I said. Cold as hell.
"Wuddaya mean so what? I told ya it had to be about a goddam room or a house or something."
"You said it had to be descriptive. What the hell's the difference if it's about a baseball glove?"
"God damn it." He was sore as hell. He was really furious. "You always do everything backasswards." He looked at me. "No wonder you're flunking the hell out of here," he said. "You don't do one damn thing the way you're supposed to. I mean it. Not one damn thing."
Holden, who had been very pleased with the composition, takes it from Stradlater and rips it up.
"Did you go to New York?" I said.
"Ya crazy? How the hell could we go to New York if she only signed out for nine-thirty?"
"Did you give her my regards?" I asked him.
The hell he did, the bastard.
"If you didn't go to New York, where'd ya go with her?" I asked him, after a little while. I could hardly keep my voice from shaking all over the place. Boy, was I getting nervous. I just had a feeling something had gone funny.
"Nowhere. We just sat in the goddam car." He gave me another one of those playful stupid little socks on the shoulder.
"Cut it out," I said. "Whose car?"
This next part I don't remember so hot. All I know is I got up from the bed, like I was going down to the can or something, and then I tried to sock him, with all my might, right smack in the toothbrush, so it would split his goddam throat open.
Only, I missed. I didn't connect. All I did was sort of get him on the side of the head or something.
It probably hurt him a little bit, but not as much as I wanted.
It probably would've hurt him a lot, but I did it with my right hand, and I can't make a good fist with that hand. On account of that injury I told you about.
Anyway, the next thing I knew, I was on the goddam floor and he was sitting on my chest, with his face all red.
That is, he had his goddam knees on my chest, and he weighed about a ton.
He had hold of my wrists, too, so I couldn't take another sock at him.
I'd've killed him.
When Stradlater finally lets Holden up, Holden calls him a “stupid sonuvabitch of a moron.”
“ That's just the trouble with all you morons. You never want to discuss anything.
That's the way you can always tell a moron. They never want to discuss anything intellig—”
Then he really let one go at me, and the next thing I knew I was on the goddam floor again.
I don't remember if he knocked me out or not, but I don't think so. It's pretty hard to knock a guy out, except in the goddam movies.
But my nose was bleeding all over the place.
I kept sitting there on the floor till I heard old Stradlater close the door and go down the corridor to the can.
Then I got up.
I couldn't find my goddam hunting hat anywhere. Finally I found it. It was under the bed. I put it on, and turned the old peak around to the back, the way I liked it, and then I went over and took a look at my stupid face in the mirror.
You never saw such gore in your life.
I had blood all over my mouth and chin and even on my pajamas and bath robe.
It partly scared me and it partly fascinated me.
All that blood and all sort of made me look tough.
I'd only been in about two fights in my life, and I lost both of them.
I'm not too tough.
I'm a pacifist, if you want to know the truth.
I had a feeling old Ackley'd probably heard all the racket and was awake.
So I went through the shower curtains into his room, just to see what the hell he was doing.
I hardly ever went over to his room.
It always had a funny stink in it, because he was so crumby in his personal habits.