Four months to New Hampshire and to the showdowns of a Presidential spring. Richard M. Nixon, an old pro, is itching for the fight. Midnight on 73rd Street, Manhattan:
It was late summer, 1967, a balmy night, the wind four knots, the barometer rising. Dick Nixon stood on the sidewalk, saying goodnight to his dinner companions. It had been a memorable dinner—good food, can- did conversation, a free give and take on the great issues of our time. Now he stood at ease, perfectly tailored, his face a dark moon of contentment. A chauffeur was waiting, but Nixon dismissed him. “Too pretty a night,” he said. “I’ll walk, it’s only a few blocks.” And he swung off toward his solid figure left a long shadow behind.
Comments