ABSTRACT
In his later years, which was when I came to know him personally, Harold Ickes would often be tired and depressed until he had incited himself to righteous indignation at some new instance of corruption or cowardice. Then he would be ageless, young again from the lust of battle, and the evening would be a success. At first I used to think that he was like an old fire horse who would waste away and die unless at least once a day somebody rang the fire alarm. Once I said that to him just to see him rear up.
