Outside the Hilton, at the corner of Michigan avenue and Balbo Drive, I stood talking to Winston Spencer Churchill. Churchill was kicking around the world as a correspondent. I noticed he liked to watch the reaction when he stuck out his hand and said, "Hullo, I'm Winston Churchill." For he resembled his grandfather's pictures taken when that young Winston covered the Boer War at the turn of the century--boyish and freckled, greedy for trouble. Now, behind the police lines, Churchill and I chatted with a guilty, voyeur's air, as if awaiting some illegal sporting event--a cockfight or a sloppily organized human...
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