Instead, they took pictures of the station and the rocks and of him--though Jack was keen-witted enough to keep in the shade and turn his face away from the camera.
They were such bores of tourists! The woman was sunburned and frowsy, and her khaki outing suit was tight where it should be loose, and hung in unsightly wrinkles where it should fit snugly.

Her high-laced mountain boots were heavy and shapeless, and she climbed here and there, and stood dumpily and stared down at Jack's beloved woods through her amber glasses until she nearly drove him frantic.

She kept saying: "Oh, papa, don't you wish you could get a snap of that ?" and "Oh, papa, come and see if you can't snap this!" Papa was not much better.

Papa's khaki suit had come off a pile on the counter of some department store--the wrong pile.

Papa kept taking off his hat and wiping his bald spot, and hitching his camera case into a different position, so that it made a new set of wrinkles in the middle of his back.