After thirty miles of this, I was surprised to discern ahead something which looked like a caravan. There were two vehicles, apparently joined together, but with no visible means of locomotion. Nevertheless they moved slowly. I judged that some enthusiast of the "See America first" order had converted a Ford into a travelling home, or maybe a wandering tribe of gipsies had become sufficiently modernized to appreciate the benefits of auto v. horse transport.
I caught them up and stopped to have a chat. Both sides seemed curious at the other's means of locomotion, and wanted to know the why and the wherefore.
The team, I found, consisted as I had surmised of a Ford chassis, on which had been skilfully built a caravan body. Behind was a trailer, on two wheels, and of construction similar to, but smaller than, the other. Evidently one was the parlour, kitchen, and store-room, and the other the bedroom.
The driver stopped his engine and jumped down.
"Good day, sir; how do?" I inquired.
"Very fit, thanks; you the same? How in Heavens'n earth d'you manage to get along on that?"
"Mostly by plenty of bad language and good driving," I returned. "And what in the world are you doing in this benighted place with that?"
"Oh, I'm goin' west...."
"Shouldn't be at all surprised at that!"
"I'm bound for somewhere in Arizona. Come from Chicago. Fed up with the life there, so I'm out for a change. Looking for a likely spot to settle down where there's plenty of fresh air."