He was a wretched, sick and snarling little man. But he had the voice of a brass trumpet blaring venom and racism. "I call upon every red-blooded white man to use any means to keep the nigger away from the polls," he had screamed. He had a name that sounded like the chugging of a bullfrog: Bilbo.
Mississippi voters had chosen him as their U.S. Senator—three times in twelve years they had chosen him. Last week he arrived in Washington to claim the seat to which he was entitled by the vote of the sovereign state of Mississippi.
Such Vile Language. A crowd had gathered on Capitol Hill, in the raw rain. They had begun to arrive early in the morning. Many of them were Negroes, there to see what the U.S. Senate would do about Theodore Gilmore Bilbo. His Republican enemies had sworn they would bar him, figuratively speaking, at the door.
They had the minority report (signed by two of their members) of the Senate's Campaign Expenditures Committee on his 1946 election campaign: "Never to the knowledge of the undersigned has such vile, inflammatory and dangerous language been uttered . . . for the purpose of procuring nomination." The committee's majority report, signed by Democrats, was a whitewash.
They had another report, signed by four Republican members of the War Investigating Committee, which charged that Bilbo had accepted gratuities possibly amounting to as much as $88,000 from Mississippi contractors who obtained Government war work; that he had collected funds from war contractors for the Juniper Grove Baptist Church. The Senators also noted the charge that he had accepted $1,500 to help a drug addict get a narcotics permit.
Said Republicans: Bilbo has violated the Constitution, the Hatch Act, the Criminal Code.
The 550 seats in the galleries were filled. Sightseers sat on the steps, stood jammed along the back and milled around the corridors outside, trying to get in. On the floor below, Senators began to arrive, pumping each other's hands, looking for their desks and seats for their friends. At 18 minutes to noon, Bilbo stumped in—reddish brown suit, sagging paunch, sunken cheeks, hair slicked down on his round skull.
As he advanced, some men turned their backs. He managed to grab the hands of a few and ducked into the Democratic cloakroom. Then he reappeared in the rear of the Chamber, sucking on a cigar, and shook hands with Tennessee's old spoilsman, Kenneth McKellar. The arena was noisy with confusion. On the rostrum Senate Secretary Leslie Biffle banged the little ivory block on the desk of the presiding officer and convened the Senate of the 80th Congress.
Job for Mr. Biffle. Mr. Biffle was scared. He had been around the Senate for some 30 years, but he had the brief job of presiding now because no one else was formally available.
Mr. Biffle got things started all right with the chaplain's prayer. Sixty holdover Senators were in their seats; 36 newly elected Senators waited to be sworn. The reading clerk read the rules, reminding the Chamber that it was the custom to swear in new members alphabetically, in groups of four.