Room 808

It was near midnight. In the Bellevue-Stratford Hotel, far above the bedlam on the street below, a waiter picked his way past tired newsmen and rapped on the door of Room 808. On his tray were six slices of cantaloupe and seven of watermelon.

The men that gathered over the melon in Room 808 had been summoned by Tom Dewey to select a Vice President. Some were old Dewey partisans--Congressman Leonard Hall of New York; Dewey's John Foster Dulles; National Committeeman Lew Wentz of Oklahoma; Barak Mattingly of Missouri and Mason Owlett of Pennsylvania. Others were days-old allies, men who had thrown their weight behind the Dewey bandwagon when that weight counted most--New Jersey's Governor Alfred Driscoll, Pennsylvania's Senator Ed Martin, Massachusetts' Governor Robert F. Bradford, Senator Leverett Saltonstall, and the Kansas City Star's Roy Roberts. Vandenberg had accepted Dewey's invitation to sit in.

Lost Licenses. Sitting at a desk flanked by his top aides, Dewey and his "committee" canvassed the possibilities one by one. Said Dewey: "The longer we talked, the longer became the list of possible Vice Presidents. I listened to all of them, but I never expressed an opinion at any time."

In the lobbies, where rumors flickered through the delegates like wind in tall grass, the word had been that Indiana's Charlie Halleck was the choice. But if Halleck had been promised anything, it had been only a hunting license. In Room 808, the license was promptly torn up. Neither Arthur Vandenberg nor Dulles could accept Halleck's isolationist record as House Majority Leader. Other politicians looked in. Ohio's Governor Thomas Herbert came to plead the case of Senator John Bricker. New Jersey's Senator H. Alexander Smith (backed by Driscoll) urged the cause of Harold Stassen.

No Smoke. The corridor outside became a shambles of broken glasses and beer bottles. Reporters squatted or sprawled in complete exhaustion. Drawn by news of free drinks, swarms of drunks and doxies mobbed the celebrities as they emerged, asked silly and insulting questions.

Some time after 2 a.m. the conferees sent out for seven pints of milk. Pachydermatous Roy Roberts lumbered out, denied indignantly that Room 808 was a "smoke-filled room." Said he: "The only thing in there was this cigar and it wasn't lit." Shortly after 4, the meeting broke up. Dewey called the man who had been his personal choice all along--California's Governor Earl Warren.

When the phone rang, big Earl Warren was asleep. He got up, dressed and hustled over to Room 808. For an hour and a half, he conferred with Dewey over the position he had refused in 1944. He laid down a condition: the job must have more responsibilities than simply presiding over the Senate; it must have authority. As the father of five, he was concerned about income. As governor of California, he gets the equivalent of $50,000 a year, including a free residence, cars and plane. As Vice President, his salary would be only $20,000--with $32,385 expense money (for his office) and $5,000 for a car, but no official residence.

The sun was up by the time Warren returned to his hotel. Still unshaven, he talked briefly with the California delegation. Out at Convention Hall, the delegates idled in confusion, sweat and irritation, while the conference went on in Room 808. At 11:30 Dewey called Warren, told him he was the almost unanimous choice. His conditions would be met. The decision was relayed to the convention floor.

Brief Revolt. Delegates were confused. Ohio had been nursing hopes for Bricker. Started by Arizona, a movement to nominate Harold Stassen rippled across the floor. Halleck rushed over to Arizona, warned: "You're sticking your necks in a buzz saw." The ripple died. Warren was nominated by acclamation.

Watching on television in his hotel room, Warren grinned his broadest grin, and headed for Convention Hall. Said he: "Mrs. Warren is out there watching what she thought was going to be a quiet performance this morning. Those kids of mine are going to be surprised." At the entrance to the hall, his three young daughters excitedly flung themselves on him, smeared his long upper lip and cheek with lipstick. He rushed on to the rostrum. Said Earl Warren: "I know what it feels like to get hit by a streetcar.''

Added Warmth. A longtime internationalist, Warren's domestic views are more liberal than those of almost any other prominent G.O.P. candidate. Dewey indicated that Warren would get the job of reorganizing the nation's executive departments, take on a large share of administrative work. His big, easy Scandinavian charm and gift of homy, off-the-cuff phrases make him an extremely effective campaigner, would add needed warmth and folksiness to the ticket.

At week's end, Warren headed for New York to keep a long-standing promise to his daughters. They would see the sights and "take in some shows." He ruled out some ("They might not meet with the platform," said Warren with a laugh), decided on Finian's Rainbow. Sunday night, he and his family attended services at Calvary Baptist Church. This week, before returning to California, he would go to Pawling to discuss campaign plans.

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