Phil Murray was just back from ten days in Florida, looking fitter than usual. The lines were gone from around his brown eyes and his firm mouth. Behind the big walnut desk in his green-walled office looking out on Washington's Jackson Place and the White House, he was every inch the boss.
He stared quietly at the men he had called around him: the United Electrical Workers' big, red-faced Albert Fitzgerald; the Auto Workers' paunchy R. J. Thomas and lithe Walter Reuther; all the other C.I.O. brass. He told them, bluntly and plainly, who was going to run the C.I.O.'s...
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