Surely there had been more heroic exploits, even in the realm of aviation. The flight of Bleriot over the Channel in the primitive machine at his disposal in 1909 has been estimated a more important feat; while the flight of John Alcock and A. W. Brown from Newfoundland to Ireland, June 14, 1919, although almost forgotten in the din of Lindbergh’s ovation, was not only the first transoceanic flight, but considering that it was made eight years before Lindbergh’s with a machine correspondingly less modern, should rank as a greater feat. All these things were subjects of discussion, but Sinclair Lewis settled the matter by saying: “It doesn’t matter. Lindbergh is the best-known man in the world today, but ten years from now he will go into a hotel in Detroit and sign the register, ‘Charles A. Lindbergh,’ and the room clerk will say ‘Lindbergh? Yes, Mr. Lindbergh, Room 502. Boy! Show Mr. Lindbergh his room,’ and the clerk won’t know him from Adam’s off ox. That’s the way it is with fame. He has come by his with incredible speed; it will go the same way.” But it did not. Lindbergh saw to that by behaving so eccentrically at times that even his mother-in-law, Mrs. Dwight Morrow, has been heard to complain of it. I was in London at the time of the birth of his baby there. Lindbergh for reasons of his own withheld formal announcement of the birth until long after it had taken place and the fact was known to so many persons that eventually the newspapers, although with British reticence, carried the report and queried Lindbergh to his great annoyance. “I said to Charles,” Mrs. Morrow exclaimed to a friend, “if you want to avoid being bothered by the press, why don’t you simply announce the birth of your child? After all he’s normal and born within wedlock.” Douglas Corrigan confirmed the judgment of Lindbergh’s mother-in-law. “Wrong-way Corrigan,” who flew to Ireland in the alleged belief that he was flying to California, was a devoted disciple of Lindbergh. I met Corrigan in Dublin shortly after he landed, and I remember two things he told me which shed some light on Lindbergh’s character. I was almost the first newspaperman to see Corrigan, and in our introductory conversation the little Irish flyer, whose flight in many ways was more remarkable than Lindbergh’s, said: “I’m not going to do like Lindbergh and be hounded to death by newspapermen. He refuses to see them and won’t say anything for quotation and makes himself so mysterious that they never have stopped going after him. If he had only opened up to them from the very first and never refused to see them, very soon they would have let him alone. That’s what I’m going to do--tell you anything you want to know, and go on seeing anybody who wants to see me, and pretty soon you will all get tired of it.”