Douglas MacArthur clapped on his faded, braided cap and, with Mrs. Mac-Arthur, strode aboard the special train waiting on the presidential siding under Manhattan's Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. The big electric engine whined out toward Boston, just ten minutes behind a pilot train which gave the rails the kind of last-minute going-over usually reserved for Presidents. From his private car, the general caught glimpses of fluttering flags and handkerchiefs as he clipped through commuter stations along the way. Boston turned out in midafternoon to greet him as though he were just home from the...
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