LABOR: Lion Meets Lamb

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There were extraordinary doings on the third floor of Washington's Willard Hotel one day last week. A score of photographers squatted in the corridor with lenses trained on the elevator. Newsreel men fidgeted with their cameras. Reporters milled around in the glare of light reflectors. Suddenly the door opened, an elevator boy gave them a prearranged nod, and President William Green of the American Federation of Labor stepped forth accompanied by George McGregor Harrison, head of A. F. of L.'s three-man committee currently trying to reunite the divided House of Labor. Waving his hands in inarticulate dismay, Mr. Green dashed for Suite No. 301-304, followed by Mr. Harrison shouting: "No comment, no comment."

Disgruntled by Mr. Green's reluctance to pose for them, the photographers and cameramen settled down for another wait. Suddenly they spied Chairman John L. Lewis of the Committee for Industrial Organization striding, not from the elevator, but down the corridor, accompanied by Philip Murray, head of the C. I. O.'s ten-man peace committee. Calm and silent, Messrs. Lewis & Murray waited for the newsreel men to shift their light and focus, obligingly posed for a hundred stills. Then they, too, vanished into Suite No. 301-304.

Arranged by astute Phil Murray when the formal peace negotiations had come to a standstill after six weeks of intermittent effort (TIME, Nov. 8), this was the first time Bill Green and John Lewis had met face to face since an unpublicized meeting in a Washington hotel seven months ago. They mumbled greetings to each other but did not shake hands. Later when a reporter asked Mr. Green if it had been "Bill" and "John" again, Mr. Green, whose manner with the Press is not one of his strong points, flushed, gulped and trailed off with a weak "Well. . . . "

The lion and the lamb of U. S. labor had hardly started to talk before they were interrupted by Tennessee's Senator George Berry, whose unexpected arrival was apparently prompted in no small measure by the presence of so many reporters and photographers. He got no farther than the anteroom, however, for the facial reaction of the conferring labor-men was enough to convince their aides that the Senator, though still the head of the A. F. of L.'s pressmen's union, was not welcome in the inner sanctum, and he was soon sent on his way.

With a marked lack of enthusiasm the crowd in the corridor took the Senator's statement and picture, and then settled down to some fun with the Willard's diminutive bellhop, Joe Johnson, posing him in innumerable belligerent attitudes defending the door against all comers. After exhausting the possibilities of Joe Johnson, who informed them that he had once been photographed perched on Primo Camera's arm, the reporters and newsmen gleefully learned that the Willard was serving them free lunch and liquor. They ate in shifts, later took turns in a poker game, for any opening of the locked door might mean the biggest labor story since the strike in "Little Steel." Some papers kept private lines open to the Willard, and all press services kept a running story on their wires.