The Losers

The great, carpeted Grand Ball Room of Manhattan's high-ceilinged Commodore Hotel was hazy with cigaret smoke, thunderous with cheers and the intermittent beat of a metronomic chorus: "We Want Willkie! We Want Willkie!" Before a crowd of 5,000, men with black chalk scaled stepladders, wrote first returns on a broad white board. It was 8 p. m.

In a green carpeted suite on the 14th floor sat Wendell Lewis Willkie, a tousle-haired Peter the Hermit in a rumpled sack suit, waiting for news of his crusade. He lounged in a big chair, his feet propped up on another, his coat gradually inching up his big back.

Now it was 9 o'clock. To the crowd in the ballroom, watching the board, the bitter, bad news was becoming apparent. Willkie's crusade was going the way of Peter the Hermit's. A desperate, dutiful note crept into the cheering. Slowly the crowd began to thin. On the 14th floor, sprawled narrow-eyed in his chair, the candidate chain-smoked, answered questions absently.

Now it was 11:30. From the 1,500 still left in the ballroom, came a great cheer of loyalty at the news that Willkie would soon be down. But not till 50 minutes later came a shout at the door. Into the room marched Wendell Willkie, head high, hair flying. Behind him stalked Brother Ed, pale of face, eyes red-rimmed. The crowd roared. Wendell Willkie wrapped a huge paw around a mike staff, flung up his right hand, smiled. The chorus welled up: "We Want Willkie! We Want Willkie!"

The crowd quieted. Would Willkie admit defeat? Was that grin the smile of a defeated man? Willkie began to speak.

"Fellow Workers: I first want to say to you that I never felt better in my life." "That's my man," shouted someone. Cheers went up.

"I congratulate you in being a part of the greatest crusade of this century. . . . And that the principles for which we have fought will prevail is as sure as that the truth will always prevail. And I hope that none of you are either afraid or disheartened, because I am not in the slightest. ... I hear some people shouting to me 'Don't give up.' I guess those people don't know me. . . . Don't be afraid and never quit. Good night."

Swiftly he strode from the stage, strode from the room. Newsmen shook their heads, as they had been shaking them over Wendell Willkie since his campaign's start. The professional gesture would have been to concede his defeat, congratulate his opponent. Political amateur to the last, Willkie went to bed. Far out at Fir Cone, Ore. Charlie McNary was left officially to concede defeat.

Morning after, Wendell Willkie stayed late in his suite while newsmen waited. Finally it came, a copy of a telegram just sent to Franklin Roosevelt at Hyde Park: "Congratulations on your re-election as President of the United States. I know that we are both gratified that so many American citizens participated in the election. I wish you all personal health and happiness. Cordially, Wendell L. Willkie."

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