Put Away That Sport Shirt

Tanned and rested after 20 days on the beach, Harry Truman stood in the doorway of his big, silvery DC-6 Independence and beamed at the friends who had come to Washington's National Airport to welcome him home. He saw his wife waving.

The President called, "Well, here's the Boss," and bounced jauntily down the ramp to give her a hug and shake hands with his Cabinet officers. He felt fine, he told the reporters: "Any better and I'd need help." Then, the brief welcomes over, he said, "Come on, Missy, let's go home," and drove off to Blair House.

He had put away his loud sport shirt and was once more wearing the hair shirt of office. Some places where it currently itched:

P: In the damage to his party by a White House secretary in a pastel mink coat and an ambassador to Mexico in soiled linen.

P: In the sores on the record of the Reconstruction Finance Corporation, still being disclosed as the bandages are unwound.

P: In a Congress that is hostile and suspicious of him, unwilling to give the President what he wants when he wants it.

P: In the contradictions between Washington and Tokyo over Far East policy.

P: In organized labor's vast irritation over the defense mobilization program.

P: In the still-mounting cost of living.

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