Brisk Walk And Brusque Talk

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The three of us were on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. Each extended a hand. “Mr. President. Mrs. Truman.”

She seated herself, and I closed the door. He gestured that he did not wish me to go around and get his door. “Now, I want you to take care of yourself,” he said. He spoke in the most kindly of tones, sweetly, really.

“Yes, sir.”

He went around the car, opened the door, got behind the wheel. From somewhere she produced a map. He pulled away from the curb. She was talking to him, and I was certain that along with discussions about their route gotten from her map—I don’t recall where they were headed—she was adding Slow Down, Watch the Light, Careful of That Car.

I went into the hotel, called the night city editor, and reported there was absolutely nothing said or done that would constitute a story. The night editor told me to go home.