As simple and clear as that, and no ifs or ands or buts. And the whole people—except for the usual scattering of cranks—back of them.
By 1981—
It was a rainy day in April and George Bailey was waiting under the sheltering roof of the little railroad station at Blakestown, Connecticut, to see who might come in on the 3:14.
It chugged in at 3:25 and came to a panting stop, three coaches and a baggage car. The baggage car door opened and a sack of mail was handed out and the door closed again. No luggage, so probably no passengers would—
Then at the sight of a tall dark man swinging down from the platform of the rear coach, George Bailey let out a yip of delight. “Pete! Pete Mulvaney! What the devil—”
“Bailey, by all that’s holy! What are you doing here?”
George wrung Pete’s hand. “Me? I live here. Two years now. I bought the Blakestown Weekly in ’79, for a song, and I run it—editor, reporter, and janitor. Got one printer to help me out with that end, and Maisie does the social items. She’s—”
“Maisie? Maisie Hetterman?”
“Maisie Bailey now. We got married same time I bought the paper and moved here. What are you doing here, Pete?”
“Business. Just here overnight. See a man named Wilcox.”