The morning was fresh, cold and clear. At the Poughkeepsie railroad station, a few loafers, hands in pockets, gazed blankly at the big open touring car (license District of Columbia 101), its tan top up against the chill. The country's first citizen, bundled in a grey topcoat, sat alone in the car. Franklin Roosevelt smoked a cigaret and waited, inhaling great puffs, waving the cigaret sweepingly after each draw.
The Presidency is a lonely job, a post that gets lonelier year by year. (Calvin Coolidge, who saw no reason why it should be...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
