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Under the Flagpole. On one of the islands, in front of the long, white Colonial clubhouse, the picnicking and politicking began at once. On the greensward facing a shallow bay was a long tent—at one end a beer and bourbon bar, at the other end a food bar (crabmeat, ham, potato salad and a barrel of oysters). Harry Truman, glass in hand, sat under a flagpole and chatted, called out many a first name.
Later he teamed with Idaho's Senator Glen Taylor against Maryland's Millard Tydings and Arkansas' J. William Fulbright at pitching horseshoes. The Missouri southpaw's side lost, 20-to-21. A seaplane brought official papers for the President. He sat under a poplar tree, read them, signed some. Then he went inside. There was a poker game in full blast and three tables of continuous bridge.
By sundown most of the picnickers began to straggle back to the mainland (the clubhouse has overnight accommodations for only about 20). All proclaimed the outing a great success. Said one good Democrat: "It was a good party. There was all we could eat, and more than we could drink—and only two people passed out."
Next day it rained. But more than 100 of the faithful journeyed to the islands, found chipper Harry Truman in a brown leather bushjacket (he calls it his "zoot" suit). The party centered around him at the piano. He played some Chopin, and accompanied gusty renditions of the inevitable How Dry I Am and Sweet Adeline. At dark the fun broke up. The President was buttonholed by newsmen at the White House back door. He had one newsmaking thing to say: he alone would make the decision about the atomic bomb secret (see INTERNATIONAL). Had the President done himself some good with Congressmen at the outing? Said one Senator, who frequently bucks the Administration: "Harry Truman plays a damn good game of poker."