(See Cover)
By midnight of primary day in New Hampshire, a cramped, L-shaped bedroom on the second floor of Manchester's Eagle Hotel was jammed and seething. Coats & hats were piled on the twin beds, and people were perching cheerfully on top of the coats & hats. Others helped themselves to the open bottles of Scotch, bourbon and rye on the dresser, or dug into the communal paper buckets of chop suey, chicken and egg rolls on the table. Looming above the pandemonium, with the air of a prophet who has just been slugged...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In