The Last Call

The night the ballots were counted in Wisconsin last week, New York's dapper Governor Thomas Edmund Dewey addressed a United Jewish Appeal rally at Manhattan's plush, ancient Plaza Hotel. To thunderous applause he said: "The doors of Palestine must be opened and opened permanently." Then he returned to his Roosevelt Hotel suite, there listened to radio reports of his smashing victory over Wendell Willkie.

Next day, brisker than ever, he bought the first American Legion poppy (which will not go on public sale until May 20), conferred with numerous G.O.P. bigwigs. After each conference, newsmen rushed to the Dewey suite. Did the Governor have any comment on the Wisconsin results? Would he now finally announce his candidacy for the GOPresidential nomination? Each time came the answer: "No comment."

Tom Dewey was on the train to Albany when the announcement of Wendell Willkie's withdrawal came over the wires. He missed reporters at the station because his train was ten minutes early. He went straight to the gloomy, gabled Executive Mansion, where he worked until early morning approving and vetoing some of the 900 bills passed by the Legislature. Next day, while messages of congratulation poured in over the Capitol switchboard, he was the very model of the ever-busy executive. He conferred with his cabinet, worked on more bills, held a clemency hearing for three condemned murderers, received a delegation of St. Regis Indians, in full regalia.

Not until 6:30 p.m. did he receive the press. Quickly he scuttled reporters' hopes of smoking him out. Before newsmen had even settled in the neat rows of chairs in the pin-neat office, he said: "There will be no comment on any political questions." Veteran reporters had never seen the Governor in better health or spirits: he was virtually bursting through his neat double-breasted suit.

Thus did Tom Dewey, perhaps the most self-disciplined of U.S. politicians, stick single-mindedly to his course of not openly seeking the GOPresidential nomination. After another day of routine administrative work, he left for his 300-acre Dutchess County farm (20 miles from Hyde Park), at Pawling, there to spend Easter with his wife, two sons and playful Great Dane.

The Rush Begins. Naturally there was a certain amount of rushing to the Dewey bandwagon. To many it looked like Dewey on the first ballot--a nomination received absolutely on his own terms, and without any commitments. The favorite ticket: Dewey and California's Governor Earl Warren.

There were doubts. GOPoliticos, sensing that this was the Last Call, were taking one more slow, careful look around the field. With the big Willkie tree fallen in the forest, a vast area had been cleared away. Much of Tom Dewey's strength had come from Old Guard Republican leaders determined to beat Willkie at any cost. They had used Tom Dewey as a parking place while they beat Willkie. But if they parked too long, Policeman Dewey would tag them. The politicos pondered; and the path for a dark horse was by no means closed.

Three other GOPresidential candidates remained in the news:

General Douglas MacArthur, observing the second anniversary of the fall of Bataan at his South Pacific Headquarters, was certain to win this week's preferential primary in Illinois. The Chicago Tribune gave an order to its constituents: "A vote for MacArthur will be a vote for the return of stalwart Americanism to the White House." But the vote would not bind Illinois delegates. In Manhattan, MacArthur Headquarters were opened at the staid, legend-encrusted Murray Hill Hotel.

Lieut. Commander Harold Stassen, also in the South Pacific, was certain to win this week's Nebraska primary (a secret, unpublished poll indicated that he would have beaten Wendell Willkie 3-to-2 anyway). This meant little. The chief Stassen supporter in Nebraska had announced: "A vote for Stassen is a vote for Dewey." But the Stassenmen's eyes were not necessarily glued only on 1948.

Governor John Bricker of Ohio, now the only candidate actively campaigning, turned up at Chicago's Union League Club, where he demanded that the U.S. hold tight to its wartime bases. He crossed over into Indiana, announced he would "intensify" his campaign. Then significantly he proceeded on his first campaign visit to the Northwest.

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