You had to take a dingy way train up to the main line if you were going the long day's journey to New York, so that the Center of the name was often construed facetiously by outlanders.
Now Newbern Center is modern, and grows callous.

Only the other day a wandering biplane circled the second nine of its new golf course, and of the four players on the tenth green but one paid it the tribute of an upward glance.

Even this was a glance of resentment, for his partner at that instant eyed the alignment for a three-foot putt and might be distracted.

The annoyed player flung up a hostile arm at the thing and waved it from the course.

Seemingly abashed, the machine slunk off into a cloud bank.
Old Sharon Whipple, the player who putted, never knew that above him had gone a thing he had very lately said could never be.