The Man They Nominated

The long-distance call from National Chairman Harrison Spangler, making the nomination official, had just come through to the Governor's Mansion at Albany. Trim in a grey suit and russet tie, Tom Dewey greeted the newsmen, shaking hands all around, but maintaining an unblinking dignity. To the first man offering congratulations, Tom Dewey cracked: "You mean congratulations or commiseration?"

An hour later, at Albany's tiny airport, he boarded a chartered United Air Lines plane for Chicago. The plane had blue "Draft Dewey" stickers in the windows. Also aboard were Mrs. Dewey, Advisers Paul Lockwood, Jim Hagerty, Elliott Bell, Hickman Powell, and a handful of reporters and radiomen. Flying west, Tom Dewey put the finishing touches to his acceptance speech, ate a quick dinner of grilled steak, salad and coffee.

He arrived none too soon. Greeted at the airport by Illinois' handsomely tanned Governor Dwight Green, he was rushed to the Stevens Hotel, given a hastily prepared suite on the 25th floor.

For three days the delegates, the visitors, the bored newsmen, the wise guys, smoking too many cigarets, drinking too many drinks, gulping too many lunches, had waited for the man who, they hoped, would give the convention a much-needed lift; who would, somehow, make the heat and sweat and boredom seem worth while.

For the first time, the convention hall was really filled. Earlier, tickets had gone begging by the thousands. This time the chiselers were out in full force, crashing their way past the ushers, squatting in the press seats, the boxes, sneaking on to the floor. Blue haze reached up to the rafters. The band, the organ, then the band again, played & played. Suddenly, in the merciless heat, the Klieg lights flicked on, like a mammoth oven's heat being turned up. The crowd whinnied, groaned and sat fanning languidly, gulping more & more cokes. As the clock reached nine, a tall, grey man, Carl Craven, director of the Chicago Light Opera Company, tried to lash the wilting crowd into singing the Battle Hymn of the Republic.

But the crowd would not sing. It watched first one entrance, then another, as photographers scurried around. Then, suddenly, as if he had been lifted up by invisible strings, Tom Dewey appeared on the platform, from the cool, little room below the speakers' stand. He looked cool and calm, obviously happy. He waved, brought his wife forward to share the ovation, waved again, shook hands with John Bricker. Calmly, efficiently, he took quick stock of the microphones, the manuscript-holder, the clock. He did not encourage any demonstration, but the crowd roared.

From his opening words, Republicans realized that they had their first candidate with a voice since radio became politically important. As they listened further, they realized that he knew what he wanted to say and knew how to say it. They were listening to the best speech of the convention (see box), the speech of a disciplined man, a man with a tough mind. Tom Dewey said little that was new, but he said it with a force and clarity that made it stick. Shrewdly he marshaled the chief Republican arguments against the New Deal and Franklin Roosevelt. Just as shrewdly he set forth the positive Republican gospel. He played on these themes, first one and then another, repeating for emphasis, varying the phrasing, repeating again, saying it another way, then hitting home again. With each thrust the crowd was with him.

The speech was mercifully and sensibly short, though some in the crowd could have listened to more, even in the stifling, clothes-plastering heat. The delegates were ready to go home from this most phenomenally flat of all Republican conventions. They had seen the man they had nominated. They had seen and heard him take over, firmly and efficiently, and now the fate of the party largely rested in his crisply gesturing hands.

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