Great was the political innocence of the few citizens who decided, seven weeks ago, that they believed Wendell Willkie was the best man to be President of the U. S. No great experience in public affairs marked them: they were made up of lawyers, advertising men, the small fry of big business, the junior partners of little firms. No great idea drove them—theirs was a stubborn, headshaking, vaguely troubled conviction that, no matter if Wendell Willkie had no chance for the Republican nomination—having no delegates, no machine, no manager—they still believed he was the man to be President.
Nor were they stopped when professional politicos pointed out the obstacles: that Wendell Willkie was a businessman and, even more sinister, a utilities executive; that he had been a registered Democrat and had voted for Franklin Roosevelt in 1932; that his office was only a block from Wall Street; that he was unknown to most U. S. voters; that his stand against isolation had made him political poison in the Middle West and his support of the reciprocal trade treaties had ruined him forever in the Western States. In addition to alL these obstacles (beside the rumor that he had been a socialist in college) there were other arguments against the whole idea: it was too late to get a campaign organized; the war had made a Third Term virtually certain; no businessman had a chance against the glamor of Franklin Roosevelt. Nevertheless, these stubborn citizens still believed that Wendell Willkie was the best man to be President of the U. S.
One month later, there were about 200 Willkie-for-President Clubs scattered throughout the country. Great was the enthusiasm among these political innocents when a Gallup poll showed that a staggering three per cent of U. S. voters favored Willkie above all other Republicans (Dewey -67%; Vandenberg -14%; Taft -12%). By last week their enthusiasm had broken all bounds: upwards of 750 Willkie Clubs had been organized, new ones were forming at the rate of 20, 30, 40 a day; a Gallup poll now put Willkie second in popular choice, ahead of Taft and Vandenberg, and still growing; at least 50,000 volunteer Willkie workers were in the field, handing out Willkie buttons, getting signatures on petitions—usually with the slightly embarrassed air of people who believe in their cause but do not want to bother anybody; over 475,000 pieces of Willkie campaign literature had been mailed from the Manhattan Volunteer Mailing Committee; Wendell Willkie had received 3,000 requests to speak.
No political commentator failed to point out that for the first time since 1920 the Republican convention was wide open. Most agreed that Candidate Dewey was likely to lose strength after the first ballot, Candidate Taft to gain. Candidate Willkie would have his chance, if his chance came at all, as these two leaders began to slip. A few there were who believed that if the convention went beyond six ballots, each dark horse in the field looked as good as well-paced leaders. Because of the slow gearing of the convention program* many a watcher felt that dark horses carried a heavy handicap. But in the maze of speculation and guesses, addition and subtraction of variables, the point that stood out was that, win or lose, the spectacular campaign of Wendell Willkie belonged with the great U. S. political stories.