Mr. Weissman. I mean radical right. And I considered myself more of an idealist than a politician. Larrie was more of a politician than an idealist. He went with the wind—which is good for him, I guess, and bad for me.
In any case Larrie wrote me easily a dozen letters imploring me to come down, telling me in one that he doesn't need me down there, but he would love to have my help because he can't accomplish anything without me, and in the next one saying, "Forget it, I don't need you," and so forth. As the letters came, they went with the wind, depending on what he was doing personally. And along about the end of October, I had been in contact with Bill—he was in Baltimore, Md., selling hearing aids. He wasn't getting anywhere. He was making a living.
Mr. Jenner. Up to this point each of you was barely making a living?
Mr. Weissman. Right.
Mr. Jenner. And you had no capital?
Mr. Weissman. No.
Mr. Jenner. No funds of your own?
Mr. Weissman. None at all. And I got in touch with Bill. Actually, I forgot how it was. He wrote me a letter and I wrote him a letter. In any case, it came about that I invited Bill up to Mount Vernon, because he figured if there was any money to be made it would be made in New York, because this is a salesman's paradise. I invited Bill to Mount Vernon. He came up about the last week of August.
I am sorry—October of 1963. And we set up about looking for work and trying to find him work, that is—I was working for the Encyclopedia Britannica, Great Books Division, as a district manager in Westchester County. So I more or less supported Bill the best I could. I fed him and gave him a room to sleep in and so forth.
In the meantime, Larrie had up to a point—hadn't accomplished anything in the way that we could use gainfully or to our purposes in Dallas. So there was really no reason to go down there—up until about, I guess, the 26th or 28th of October.