National Affairs: Out of Nowhere

At 7 o'clock one evening last week the attendant on duty at the De Luxe Auto Court just outside Cheyenne, Wyo. jumped slightly. John L. Lewis had just driven up at the wheel of a long, black, shiny Cadillac limousine. The bushybrowed U.M.W. chieftain lumbered out like Ivan the Terrible advancing on a peasant maiden from Omsk. He wanted a cabin. There was only one, the attendant said—a double one. Lewis turned a cold eye first on the cabin, then on the attendant. How much? Eight dollars.

After a long moment John L. fished out a $10 bill, got his change, put it all carefully away. "No publicity," he croaked, "no publicity." But there was the matter of the register. "You sign it," said Lewis. "You sign it. Just put it J. L. Lewis, Springfield, Ill." No, sir, said the attendant, the guest has to sign the register himself. Lewis seized the pen, stabbed the offending book, scratched at it ferociously. His signature was five lines high. He tramped silently to his cabin.

At 5 o'clock in the morning he silently reappeared, got into his Cadillac, drove off into the dawn. The attendant noted that the great man had used only one towel, wondered aloud if he should erect a sign: "John L. Lewis Slept Here."