In the damp, disused, musty wharf shed the 50 men stood and sat, impatient, griped, chilled: newsmen, cameramen, radiomen, technicians, bottleholders. They had been waiting a long timetwo weeks at Swampscott, Mass., two days at Rockland, Me. They were angry as a bunch of bears with sore haunches. They were the reception committee for Franklin Roosevelt, returning from the greatest fishing trip that any President of the U.S. had ever undertaken.
The fog, heavy all day over the far reaches of Penobscot Bay, had gradually lifted and faded; about 3 o'clock the watchers...
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