REPUBLICANS: Don’t Worry About Me

The Dewey staff could see hardly any reason for making the trip scheduled for last week—except maybe to help get some Senators elected. Their real concern was over what Harry Truman might do between now and January to upset the country, particularly in its foreign relations. The responsibilities of power already weighed on them so heavily that a newsman inquired blandly: “How long is Dewey going to tolerate Truman’s interference in the government?”

But the trip had been scheduled. So the Dewey staff, with an air of duty, climbed aboard the “Victory Special” and headed out from Albany, swinging south and westward, while Thomas E. Dewey turned on his smile, waved to the people, shook their hands (until he had an attack of bursitis), and promised a new era of strength, unity and integrity.

Rain beat down on the train in Erie, Pa. The man who was almost president spoke from an improvised platform, poking his head out from under a tarpaulin to show that he did not mind getting wet. The Victory Special rolled on to Louisville. Mr. Dewey wanted Kentucky to be sure to re-elect Senator John Sher man Cooper. “Don’t worry about me,” he added confidently.

The Victory Special headed Illinois-wards, chuffing from one railroad siding to another. ‘At Mt. Vernon, Ill., some hoodlums hurled a handful of tomatoes at the train. At all the stops the candidate appeared, smiling at the trainside crowds, waving to them from the rear platform, reciting over & over the unvarying remarks. He told the humorous story about the old codger who said: “I’ve been wantin’ to vote for you a long time, ever since you licked them, Spaniards at Manila Bay.” He reminded the youngsters who had been let out of school: “Now you can’t say that a Republican candidate wasn’t useful to you.” Then he grew serious.”We’re going to start the biggest and best and healthiest house-cleaning this government ever had.”

The crowds were of fair size; they seemed interested but never deeply stirred. Mothers lugging children crowded, up close to the rear platform. “I think it’s good for the kids to see anything that comes along,” one of them remarked. “I think it’s only right.”

“Hey there, Orla.” A slight misadventure at Beaucoup, Ill. almost spoiled that stop. Engineer Lee Tindle, who improved the time at these railway siding stops by taking on water, had overshot the water tank. Without realizing what he was doing, he backed the Victory Special into a gathering of admirers at the rear end.

The crowd fell back in panic. Dewey, startled, yelled “Whoops!” But the train moved only a few feet and Dewey, smiling wryly, addressed himself to the microphone. “That’s the first lunatic I’ve had for an engineer,” he declared. “He probably ought to be shot at sunrise but I guess we can let him off because no one was hurt.”*

Across the grass and corn and wheat country, the Victory Special proceeded, always right on schedule.. It rolled into Sapulpa, Okla., where Mr. & Mrs. Dewey joyfully greeted Mrs. Dewey’s mother and father, the Orla T. Hutts. “Hey there, Orla,” the candidate jovially called from the rear platform. “Come on up here.” Afterwards, the Deweys had dinner at the Huttses’.

“We Need a Rudder.” At the longer stops, where the candidate made full-dress speeches in auditoriums, the ritual was also unvarying. He swept from the train in a motorcade through mildly curious crowds, arriving at the hall on the dot, striding out on the stage just as the introducer boomed: “I give you the next President of the United States.”

Dewey’s speeches were not electrifying. “As never before,” the candidate solemnly declared, “we need a rudder to our ship of state and we need a firm hand at the tiller.” When he referred to his opponent he spoke more in sorrow than in anger, never mentioning his name. “We know the kind of government we have now. It’s tired. It’s confused. It scolds and complains . . . It’s coming apart at the seams.”

Do Not Disturb. It was in Missouri that the bursitis attacked the candidate, the pain centering in his right shoulder. He applied a hot water bottle, failed to take Mrs. Dewey’s advice to rub oil on his skin, and ended up with a burn.

At Albert Lea, Minn., he put in a word for Senator Joe Ball, who deserted him in 1944 to support Roosevelt and who is now fighting for his political life against Minneapolis’ bouncing Mayor Hubert Humphrey. Ball, smiling bleakly, was allowed to stand on the rear platform with the candidate. A tomato hurled by another hoodlum grazed Ball’s shoulder.

In Chicago, Indiana’s Senator Homer Capehart appeared at 7 a.m. Wearing a cigar at a jaunty angle, trailed by a delegation of Indiana politicians which included the late Wendell Willkie’s son, Philip, Homer stepped aboard the hushed train. A bodyguard barred the way to the Dewey bedroom. The candidate was not to be disturbed; he had set aside this morning for sleeping. The Victory Special rocked on into Indiana while Mr. Dewey slept on and Capehart and party huddled in car No. 3, an ordinary Pullman for miscellaneous visitors. Capehart was boiling. Not until three and a half hours later, when Dewey debarked at Rensselaer, Ind., did Capehart and party see the candidate.

“Where’s My Tommy?” Rensselaer is the home town of Congressman Charles Halleck, Majority Leader of the House, who had wanted very much to be Vice President. On the platform stood Charlie himself. He was not invited to board the train and he looked more disconsolate than usual when the candidate majestically appeared. But Charlie cheered up later when Mr. Dewey, making a speech at the town’s little St. Joseph’s College, referred to Congressman Halleck as “one of the oldest friends I have in public life.” During the rest of the speech Charlie beamed, clapping at every opportunity.

The train rolled on to Jackson, Mich., where the power & glory of the state’s Republicanism—Senators Arthur Vandenberg and Homer Ferguson, Governor Kim Sigler—appeared. So did Mrs. George Dewey, the candidate’s mother, whom he calls “Mater.” She cried.: “Where’s my Tommy?” With one arm around Mater and one around his wife, the candidate stood on the rear platform. “Was there ever such a lucky man as I am?” he asked the train-side crowd. “I have a wonderful mother and a wonderful wife and they are both here with me.”

At week’s end the Victory Special came triumphantly to Owosso (pop. 18,000), the candidate’s home town. Some 20,000 people lined the streets as the motorcade carried the Deweys up Main Street, past the second-story apartment over Colvin’s home appliance store where Dewey was born, up to the Owosso High School Stadium, where nine bands blared.

Nine floats, depicting the various phases of Dewey’s life, rolled past the grandstand: Dewey building a bobsled at eleven, riding in a Model T (“College Years”), a climactic float showing him seated in the White House. Young men with burnt cork mustaches impersonated him in his adult years.

“We’re All Useful.” When the parade was over, the candidate rose amidst a clapping of hands. He didn’t intend to talk politics, he said. “I assume most of you folks are going to vote for me.” He remarked how well people in Owosso got along. “We’re all useful,” he added. “We depend on each other.”

On Sunday, the candidate rested. He went to Christ Episcopal Church, where he once sang in the choir. His authoritative baritone rang out clearly above the rest of the voices in the congregation. Afterwards he rode back to his mother’s comfortable, old-fashioned house on Oliver Street and ate a turkey dinner. Neighbors and newsmen stood outside scuffing around in the “fallen leaves. Mrs. George Dewey’s elderly roomer, Ed Stanard, a retired mail carrier, modestly kept out of sight, getting his meals elsewhere.

That night the candidate was driven back to the railway yards. The Victory Special rolled home to Albany. There was just one more week to go.

* Engineer Tindle, asked by newsmen to comment on Dewey’s remark, observed mildly: “I think as much of Dewey as I did before and that’s not very much.”