General ‘Retreating Johnnie’ Estabrook wintered there before the Battle of Monmouth and wrote pettishly to General Washington : ‘I can obtain no Provision here, as the inhabitants are so averse to our Cause, that I cannot get a Man to come near me.’
During the Civil War, a small draft riot took place in its main square in which a recruiting colonel of the IXth Volunteer Pennsylvania Zouaves was chased out of town and the son of the town’s leading banker suffered superficial scalp wounds. (He fell off his horse. He was drunk.)
These were only little wars, you know. They had left only little scars.
Pung’s Corners missed all the big ones.
For instance, when the biggest of all got going, why, Pung’s Corners had a ticket on the fifty-yard line but never had to carry the ball.
The cobalt bomb that annihilated New Jersey stopped short at the bank of the Delaware, checked by a persistent easterly wind.
The radio-dust that demolished Philadelphia went forty-some miles up the river. Then the drone that was spreading it was rammed down by a suicide pilot in a shaky jet. (Pung’s Corners was one mile farther on.)
The H-bombs that scattered around the New York megalopolis bracketed Pung’s Corners, but it lay unscathed between.
You see how it was? They never laid a glove on us. But after the war, we were marooned.
Now that wasn’t a bad way to be, you know? Read some of the old books, you’ll see. The way Pung’s Corners felt, there was a lot to be said for being marooned. People in Pung’s Corners were genuinely sorry about the war, with so many people getting killed and all. (Although we won it. It was worse for the other side.) But every cloud has its silver lining and so on, and being surrounded at every point of the compass by badlands that no one could cross had a few compensating features.
There was a Nike battalion in Pung’s Corners, and they say they shot down the first couple of helicopters that tried to land because they thought they were the enemy. Maybe they did. But along about the fifth copter, they didn’t think that any more, I guarantee. And then the planes stopped coming. Outside, they had plenty to think about, I suppose. They stopped bothering with Pung’s Corners.
Until Mr. Coglan came in.
After Coglan got his line of communication opened up - because that was what the big suitcase was, a TV communications set - he talked for a little while. Charley had a red dent on his forehead for two days, he pressed against the doorknob so hard, trying to see.
‘Mr. Maffity?’ boomed Coglan, and a pretty girl’s face lighted up on the screen.
‘This is Vice President Maffity’s secretary,’ she said sweetly. ‘I see you arrived safely. One moment, please, for Mr Maffity.’
And then the set flickered and another face showed up, the blood brother to Coglan’s own. It was the face of an elderly and successful man who recognized no obstacles, the face of a man who knew what he wanted and got it. ‘Coglan, boy! Good to see you got there!’
‘No sweat, L.S.,’ said Coglan. ‘I’m just about to secure my logistics. Money. This is going to take money.’
‘No trouble?’
‘No trouble, Chief. I can promise you that. There isn’t going to be any trouble.’ He grinned and picked up a nested set of little metallic boxes out of a pouch in the suitcase. He opened one, shook out a small disk-shaped object, silver and scarlet plastic. ‘I’m using this right away.’
‘And the reservoir?’
‘I haven’t checked yet, Chief. But the pilots said they dumped the stuff in. No opposition from the ground either, did you notice that? These people used to shoot down every plane that came near. They’re softening. They’re ripe.’
‘Good enough,’ said L. S. Maffity from the little cathode Screen. ‘Make it so, Coglan. Make it so.’
Now, at the Shawanganunk National Bank, Mr. LaFarge saw Coglan come in and knew right away something was up.
How do I know that? Why, that’s in a book too. The Federal Budget and How I Balanced It: A Study in Surplus Dynamics, by Treasury Secretary (Retired) Wilbur Otis LaFarge. Most everything is in a book, if you know where to look for it. That’s something you young people have got to learn.
Anyway, Mr. LaFarge, who was then only an Assistant Vice President, greeted old man Coglan effusively. It was his way. ‘Morning, sir!’ he said. ‘Morning! In what way can we serve you here at the bank?’
‘We’ll find a way,’ promised Mr. Coglan.
‘Of course, sir. Of course!’ Mr. LaFarge rubbed his hands. ‘You’ll want a checking account. Certainly! And a savings account? And a safety deposit box? Absolutely! Christmas Club, I suppose. Perhaps a short-term auto loan, or a chattel loan on your household effects for the purpose of consolidating debts and reducing -’
‘Don’t have any debts,’ said Coglan. ‘Look, what’s-you-name-‘
‘LaFarge, sir! Wilbur LaFarge. Call me Will.’
‘Look, Willie. Here are my credit references.’ And he spilled a manila envelope out on the desk in front of LaFarge.
The banker looked at the papers and frowned. He picked one up. ‘Letter of credit,’ he said. ‘Some time since I saw one of those. From Danbury, Connecticut, eh?’ He shook his head and pouted. ‘All from outside, sir.’
‘I’m from outside.’
‘I see.’ LaFarge sighed heavily after a second. ‘Well, sir, I don’t know. What is it you wanted?’
‘What I want is a quarter of a million dollars, Willie. In cash. And make it snappy, will you?’
Mr. LaFarge blinked.
You don’t know him, of course. He was before your time. You don’t know what a request like that would do to him.
When I say he blinked, I mean, man, he blinked. Then he blinked again and it seemed to calm him. For a moment, the veins had begun to stand out in his temples; for a moment, his mouth was open to speak. But he closed his mouth and the veins receded.
Because, you see, old man Coglan took that silvery, scarlet thing out of his pocket. It glittered. He gave it a twist and he gave it a certain kind of squeeze, and it hummed, a deep and throbbing note. But it didn’t satisfy Mr. Coglan.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said, offhandedly, and he adjusted it and squeezed it again. ‘That’s better,’ he said.
The note was deeper, but still not quite deep enough to suit Coglan. He twisted the top a fraction more, until the pulsing note was too deep to be heard, and then he nodded.
There was silence for a second.
Then: ‘Large bills?’ cried Mr. LaFarge. ‘Or small?’ He leaped up and waved to a cashier. ‘Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars! You there, Tom Fairleigh! Hurry it up now. What? No, I don’t care where you get it. Go out to the vault, if there isn’t enough in the cages. But bring me two hundred and fifty thousand dollars!’
He sank down at his desk again, panting. ‘I am really sorry, sir,’ he apologized to Mr. Coglan. ‘The clerks you get these days! I almost wish that old times would come back.’
‘Perhaps they will, friend,’ said Coglan, grinning widely to himself. ‘Now,’ he said, not unkindly, ‘shut up.’
He waited, tapping the desk top, humming to himself, staring at the blank wall. He completely ignored Mr. LaFarge until Tom Fairleigh and another teller brought four canvas sacks of bills. They began to dump them on the desk to count them.
‘No, don’t bother,’ said Coglan cheerfully, his black eyes snapping with good humour. ‘I trust you.’ He picked up the sacks, nodded courteously to Mr. LaFarge, and walked out.
Ten seconds later, Mr. LaFarge suddenly shook his head, rubbed his eyes and stared at the two tellers. ‘What -’