The people pushed while the party workers shouted and placards swayed against walls. The crowd chanted "All the way with Adlai," and a girl stretched to a full five feet two inches, peered determinedly through steel-rimmed glasses, and piped boldly, "All the way! All the way!"

Over a loudspeaker an apologetic voice said, "Mr. Stevenson's plane will be twenty minutes late." Placards dropped and voices quieted, save for a determined and well organized group from the Garment Workers Union ("Bra Division").

A party worker leaped to the top of an airline's reservation counter and shouted, "We're going to win because we're for the common man."

"Who's common?" growled a surprised man who smoked a thick brown cigar.

The next impromptu speaker wore a tweed coat with a velvet collar, and was interrupted by an occasional cheer for Jackson J. Holtz and the common man.

As the moment for Stevenson's arrival grew nearer, the crowd grew larger and more disorganized. While the state troopers struggled bravely to keep the thousands away from the air strip, party workers urged them on. The police held their own for a moment, arm to arm. Then the trooper who was holding closed the main gate let out a groan and the Democratic tide poured through, while a party worker shrieked "Keep back!"

Banners flowed forward into the spotlights: "Nous Sommes Madly for Adlai," "Adlai Likes Me," and "We Don't Want Nixon." The loudspeaker screamed "We won't be able to unload Adlai if you don't get back."

A motorcycle policeman raced his engine and moved menacingly toward the mob. "They used to use horses in the old days," shouted a greyhaired man with a Furcolo button.

With ten minutes to go the loudspeaker announced, "We have an eight year old boy named Philip Berman here. He is lost." The voice hesitated, then boomed, "The Democratic party will always take care of the little people!"

Stevenson's plane rumbled up to the crowd, which shrank back respectfully. Politicians and party workers raced through the crowd to get to the gangway. The youthful crowd began to shout section by section, "Wellesley for Adlai!" and "M.I.T. for Adlai!", then "B.U. for Adlai!" As the shouts continued, the elderly Furcolo supporter muttered, "Can anyone here vote?"

Stevenson emerged from the plane, and made his way toward the microphone atop a baggage cart. He climbed cautiously up, while frantic radio-men attempted to discover what happened to the wires.

Adlai stood gingerly on the temporary stand and said, "The only thing as shaky as this is the Republican platform." He thanked the crowd for its hospitality and atempted to reach his car behind a cordon of state troopers, as party workers screamed, "Foster: What happened to Furcolo?"

Stevenson made fair headway, considering that the police were outnumbered, 5,000 to 30. Stevenson shook hands gallantly down the runway, through doorways, and even from inside his Cadillac. The car was unable to start as the hands were still clutching Adlai's, so the police began to move the crowd away. One supporter found himself being carried away, feet first. But he smiled back at Stevenson and cried, "Don't you worry, Adlai. It's OK. It's not your fault!"