In the spring of 1930 a blond, square-shouldered young man sat in his Model-T Ford and looked at Scranton, Pa. He saw great black pyramids of coal, busy, puffing locomotives, dismal rows of workers' houses. From Scranton he turned south to Bethlehem where there were steel mills and more locomotives.
Farther south he went, through the Shenandoah Valley where the sun sank scarlet behind the blue hills, through North Carolina with its little towns and their false-front buildings on Main Street. Finally the young man and his Ford reached Charleston, S. C. where...
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