BY SAM AND
JANET ARGO
A great politician need notbe a statesman ... but itis inherently futile to bea great statesman, and nopolitician. Except, ofcourse, for a miracle ...
■ The tumult in Convention Hallwas a hurricane of sound that lashedat a sea of human beings that surgedand eddied around the broad floor.Men and women, delegates and spectators,aged party wheelhorses andyoungsters who would vote for thefirst time that November, all lost theiridentities to merge with that swirlingtide. Over their heads, like agitatedbits of flotsam, pennants flutteredand placards rose and dipped. Beneaththeir feet, discarded metal buttonsthat bore the names of two or three"favorite sons" and those that hadtouted the only serious contenderagainst the party's new candidatewere trodden flat. None of them hadever really had a chance.
The buttons that were now pinnedon every lapel said: "Blast 'em WithCannon!" or "Cannon Can Do!" Theplacards and the box-shaped signs,with a trifle more dignity, said: WINWITH CANNON and CANNONFOR PRESIDENT and simplyJAMES H. CANNON.
Occasionally, in the roar of noise,there were shouts of "Cannon! Cannon!Rah! Rah! Rah! Cannon! Cannon!Sis-boom-bah!" and snatches ofold popular tunes hurriedly set withnew words:
White House, here we come!
He's a winner, no beginner;
He can get things done!
(Rah! Rah! Rah!)
And, over in one corner, a groupof college girls were enthusiasticallychanting:
We want J. H. C. for Prexy!
It was a demonstration that lastednearly three times as long as theeighty-five-minute demonstration thathad occurred when RepresentativeMatson had first proposed his namefor the party's nomination.
Spatially, Senator James HarringtonCannon was four blocks awayfrom Convention Hall, in a suite atthe Statler-Hilton, but electronically,he was no farther away than the televisioncamera that watched the cheeringmultitude from above the floorof the hall.
The hotel room was tastefully andexpensively decorated, but neitherthe senator nor any of the other menin the room were looking at anythingelse except the big thirty-six-inchscreen that glowed and danced withcolor. The network announcer'swords were almost inaudible, sincethe volume had been turned waydown, but his voice sounded almostas excited as those from the conventionfloor.
Senator Cannon's broad, handsomeface showed a smile that indicatedpleasure, happiness, and a touch oftriumph. His dark, slightly wavyhair, with the broad swathes of silverat the temples, was a little disarrayed,and there was a splash of cigaretteash on one trouser leg, but otherwise,even sitting there in his shirt sleeves,he looked well-dressed. His wideshoulders tapered down to a narrowwaist and lean hips, and he looked agood ten years younger than his actualfifty-two.
He lit another cigarette, but a carefulscrutiny of his face would haverevealed that, though his eyes wereon the screen, his thoughts were notin Convention Hall.
Representative Matson, lookinglike an amazed bulldog, managed tochew and puff on his cigar simultaneouslyand still speak understandableEnglish. "Never saw anything like it.Nev