Punch, iced and non-kick, is put into Bricker drive for delegates
His headquarters has homey Ohio touch – Dewey buttons, large size, in boom as they are found fine as ash trays
By Meyer Berger
Chicago, Illinois – (June 26)
The only genuinely warm spot at his convention, when you’re out of the sun or get from under the stadium kliegs, is Bricker headquarters.
The men and women from Ohio have spread a gentle, homey glow in this political wasteland. They have daily concerts by a female string trio, an adult male chorus, and an extraordinary boy choir, brought on from Columbus.
This afternoon the Ohio women were political Florence Nightingales. With the thermometer mercury knocking its head at the top of the glass, they passed out life-giving iced punch which went all the better for the smiles they added for kicker.
An emotional woman visitor at this afternoon’s reception, sipping her third glass of punch, sighed from ‘way down her capacious bosom when the boy choir finished “Beautiful Ohio.” “I don’t really need this refreshment to get cool,” she told a friend. “Every time I hear those children, I get goose pimples, just like winter.”
The punch was non-alcoholic.
The demand for Dewey buttons, large size, shot ‘way up today. Political writers suddenly discovered, in this world of war shortages, that the big buttons make swell ashtrays.
The disappointing turnout for the morning session at the stadium caused gloom in the most astonishing places.
Chicago’s sewer superintendent, Tom Garry, who has charge of the stadium, came in from the half-filled arena shaking his head. He had tried to tell the Republican committee how to jam the place to get a good showing in the first newsreels and news photos, but it seems they were suspicious. Tom’s staff could not understand his solicitude over the weak Republican display, because he is a Mayor Kelly Democrat. “Politics don’t figure in my thinking,” the sewer boss explained. “It’s only that my civic pride’s hurt.”
**Chief American Big Horse from Kyle, South Dakota, made the only splash of color on the convention floor. He wore full white deerskin regalia with headdress. Chicago policemen were inclined to frisk the deerskin scabbard he carried, but thought better of it when they found he was a delegate alternate. The scabbard concealed the chief’s pipe of peace. American Big Horse is impressively tall, granitic and unblinking. He is 74 years old and this is his first national powwow. “You like ‘um, Big Chief?” a reporter wanted to know. American Big Horse didn’t stir a facial muscle. He said, “I’d describe it as rather interesting.”
The most melancholy note on the convention floor is the empty space reserved for the Philippine delegates. A wreath hangs on the Philippine standard.
A Bricker promotion man stood in Michigan Boulevard this afternoon staring wistfully at the silver barrage balloon floating over Grant Park. “Swell spot for a Bricker sign,” he remarked. It was just an idea. The balloon is a war bond puller.
Two perspiring delegates from a dry state took aside one of the Chicago policemen guarding Gate 3 at the stadium. “Any place around here a man could get a real drink?” they asked him confidentially. The policeman suspected wagering, or a sight on his hometown, but the delegates were sincere. The policeman waved down Madison Street. “Start across the way,” he directed, “and then stop every 15 or 20 feet. That’s the distance between bars. If you make all the stops, from there to Oak Park and are still on your feet, maybe Mayor Kelly’ll commemorate the deed with a monument in Grant Park.
The delegates entered the stadium a little late.
Other thirsty delegates who got into Billy the Goat’s place on Madison Street, opposite the stadium, got a liberal treatment of lusty old Chicago hospitality.
Billy the Goat is Mr. Slanis, a former Loop newsboy who delights in practical jokes. This morning he befuddled dignified convention visitors with trick beer glasses, which look full but hold no refreshment, with a visiting card that leaves carbon smudges on the holder’s fingers, with an electrically charged cigar box and other surprising gadgets of nonsense.
Each time a customer registered fright or indignation, Mr. Slanis rang a fire gong or sounded a siren just back of the bar and roared with laughter.
New Yorkers, familiar with the ancient custom in their city to have gun-toting celebrants check their guns at the door, were startled this morning when they noticed Chicago policemen checking their guns at the door. “Precautionary measure,” a sergeant explained. “You get some of these Texas or Oklahoma guys tuned up and they’re apt to grab a rod and fire a few shots through the roof.”
March of Progress item: Some delegates are sending back to radio stations in their home districts their own recorded commentary on convention doings.
An Americana shop next to the Chicago Club on E Van Buren Street has its window filled with old-time convention and campaign posters, pictures and literature, including an original Whig Ticket, dated 1840. The embittered shopkeeper who staged this display has not had a single call from a convention visitor. “Might have known better,” he said glumly. “Politicians don’t read.”
