(7 of 7)
Among Friends. That job might seem almost impossible to everyone except dogged Bill Knowland—and worried Pat Brown. Not for one moment since the primary has Brown stopped running. Every day in every way, he keeps plugging. He finds little time to spend with his wife Bernice in their pleasant San Francisco home (the Browns have four children, including a son who is studying for the Jesuit priesthood). Indeed, for the first time since he first ran for assemblyman in San Francisco, Bernice has recently accompanied him on campaign trips.
One recent day Pat Brown started out from Sacramento to a political conference at Henry Kaiser's Lake Tahoe estate on the California-Nevada line. With him were a TIME correspondent, two aides and Chester Reed, a dedicated retainer who keeps Brown's scrapbooks and drives his state-owned Cadillac. Candidly, refreshingly. Pat Brown told of his life and times. Then, suddenly, he got excited. "Chester!" he cried. "How fast are we going? Why aren't we going faster?" Chester patiently pointed out that a truck was dead ahead. "Oh," said Pat. "Well, pass it when you can." Calmly, he resumed the telling of his life story. Then: "Chester!" Said Chester: "Yes?" Said Pat: "I think you can pass that truck here."
That night the group stopped at Cal-Neva, a popular gambling resort on the state line. Brown led the way into a swank hotel casino, then pulled up short. The place was swarming—but, tragically, with outstaters who might not recognize Pat Brown. Pat was baffled. He strode back and forth on the edge of the crowd, jaw tight, brow creased, eyes darting from face to face in search of the familiar. Finally he girded himself, walked up to the registration desk to ask if there were any available rooms. The blunt answer: no. Crushed, Pat walked away while his two aides began telling the clerk who he was. Moments later the hotel manager hurried up, full of apologies. The manager immediately began calling people over to meet "the next Governor of California." Pat Brown shook hands, slapped backs, made himself liked. So pleased was he that he later plunged on a dice table to the extent of one silver dollar (he lost, betting on eight the hard way).
Pat Brown was happy. He was among friends. He was being liked. He was just plain Pat, running high, wide and handsome ahead of a wounded but still dangerous Bill Knowland.