Sagebrush Tourists of the Great Highway

The Sagebrush Tourists made camp; covered the hood with a quilt from
which the cotton was oozing; brought out the wash-boiler, did a washing,
had dinner, sang about the fire; granther and the youngest baby
gamboling together, while the limousinvalids, insulated from life by
plate glass, preserved by their steady forty an hour from the commonness
of seeing anything along the road, looked out at the campers for a
second, sniffed, rolled on, wearily wondering whether they would find a
good hotel that night--and why the deuce they hadn't come by train.

If Claire Boltwood had been protected by Jeff Saxton or by a chauffeur,
she, too, would probably have marveled at cars gray with dust, the
unshaved men in fleece-lined duck coats, and the women wind-burnt
beneath the boudoir caps they wore as motoring bonnets. But Claire knew
now that filling grease-cups does not tend to delicacy of hands; that
when you wash with a cake of petrified pink soap and half a pitcher of
cold hard water, you never quite get the stain off--you merely get
through the dust stratum to the Laurentian grease formation, and mutter,
"a nice clean grease doesn't hurt food," and go sleepily down to dinner.

She saw a dozen camping devices unknown to the East: trailers, which by
day bobbed along behind the car like coffins on two wheels, but at night
opened into tents with beds, an ice-box, a table; tents covering a bed
whose head rested on the running-board; beds made-up in the car, with
the cushions as mattresses.