The polling place in the Manhattan public school was jammed. Swarming photographers and reporters awaited the arrival of the President-apparent. As police sirens wailed, bystanders craned and pushed for a glimpse of the man everyone expected to become the 33rd President of the United States. Applause spattered about him as Governor Thomas Edmund Dewey stepped from his car.
While flashbulbs popped, Dewey signed the registration book, then strode to the polling booth. "You fellows all set?" he asked amiably. The babble was deafening. Dewey blew his nose, flicked something out of his eye, and disappeared behind the curtain. He emerged grinning. After Mrs. Dewey voted, he remarked: "Well, that's two votes we've got anyway."
"Lotsa Luck." On the way back to the Hotel Roosevelt, Dewey's car suddenly stopped, and he stepped out with Mrs. Dewey. They strolled through the sidewalk crowds, Dewey politely doffing his Homburg to amazed passersby, bidding them a gracious good morning. "Lotsa luck, Dewey," yelled a cab driver.
After a light lunch (V8 juice, salad, milk), the candidate sprawled on a couch in the green-walled, flower-choked living room of the Roosevelt's Suite 1527-29, relaxed and confident. As he has every election night of his career, he and his family dined at the home of Roger Straus, banker and longtime Dewey adviser. Then, flanked by his wife, his two sons, his mother (who had come from Owosso to be with her son at his great moment) and aides Elliott Bell and Paul Lockwood, he settled himself in his suite with a pad of yellow scratch paper on his lap. He watched a television set, listened to the radio, scanned bulletins from a news ticker. Press Secretary Jim Hagerty proclaimed confidently: "We may be out of the trenches by midnight."
Lost Landslide. Below, the ballroom was slowly filling with party workers, ready to watch the avalanche bury Harry Truman. Campaign Manager Herb Brownell emerged from his closely guarded headquarters to announce: "It is now apparent tha we will wind up by sweeping two-thirds of the states." Television cameras trained their lenses on the balcony, where the candidate was expected to appear, along around midnight, for a triumphal speech to the faithful.
The first figures on the big Scoreboard were jarring. Pundits explained soothingly that it was only the big-city vote, which was expected to be Democratic anyway. But the first faint chill swept over the gathering. The totals on the board mounted, the minutes dragged into hours, but the Dewey landslide still had not begun. At 11:30 Brownell appeared again, proudly announced that Dewey had carried Philadelphia (he was wrong—Truman did, by 7,500), and flatly claimed the election.
Last Call. Gradually a crawling uncertainty seized the Hotel Roosevelt. Up in the candidate's suite, Dewey smoked one Marlboro cigarette after another in his aluminum holder. Young John fell asleep. At midnight, his brother Tom was sent to bed. In the ballroom people started to trickle out. An elevator operator asked if it were true that they were stretching nets outside Dewey's windows. In a gallant effort, a Dewey worker shouted defiantly: "Are we downhearted?" Faintly, the crowd denied it.