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opened an opportunity to make political capital, Herrick answered for Lindbergh before he could get his mouth open. If it were technical, the Ryan man pounced on it. Between these answers, Lindbergh was helpless. Only once did a question stymie both of Lindbergh���s custodians. It was his one chance to speak but he let it pass. The question had been put in the rasping voice of Hank Wales: ���Say, Lindy, did you have a crapper on that plane?��� It was on that ���rst day, I think, that I attended a lunch in Lindbergh���s honor at the Clos Normand, a nowvanished restaurant on the edge of the Bois de Boulogne. Lindbergh was led to the place of honor, where he regarded with puzzled disbelief the forest of glasses rising behind his plate. I seem to remember that there were seven, for an aperitif, four wines, cognac, and even, the largest one, for mineral water. As Lindbergh sat down, the sommelier, all attention, sprang to his elbow, bottle cocked and ready to ���re. Lindbergh pushed all the glasses back except the big one and requested water. It would have been polite for the rest of us to follow his example, but I do not recall that anyone did. The days that followed were carbon copies of the ���rst. There were two press conferences a day at the embassy because the reading public was mercilessly hungry for information and had to be fed. We followed Lind�� bergh through a succession of presentations of awards, of���cial receptions, banquets, and laudatory speeches, reporting word after banal word. Never in human history had the name of Lafayette been so frequently bran�� dished. Lindbergh was moved through this labyrinth of HYLAND 18