A HUNDRED TONS OF PRANKISHNESS
Continuing the subject of elephants, I remember a pre-season conference
last winter where a circus owner got a new idea. Around the table
were the press representatives, the general agent, the manager and
all the rest of the men whose constant winter activity forms a part
of the preparations for the summer season of a circus; posters and
various sorts of billing were scattered about, letters from performers
desiring contracts were piled high in the wicker receiving baskets, and
suggestions were everywhere. So the circus owner made a suggestion of
his own.
“Got a new catch-line for the bulls,” he announced, as he stared across
the room toward a twenty-four-sheet stand depicting the accomplishments
of the five herds of elephants. “We’ll cut out this stuff about massive
mastodons and ponderous pachyderms and call ’em what they really are--a
hundred tons of prankishness.”
It was a great idea, for a moment. Then one by one, press agent,
manager, general agent, they overruled him. Not that it wasn’t the
truth. Not that it wasn’t a good catch-line. But what would it mean to
the man in the street? Nothing. So another good circus idea went into
the waste basket, the discarding even being approved finally by the
circus owner himself, and all for the reason that the public wouldn’t
know what the show was talking about. For the most interesting things
about elephants are the things they do when the public isn’t there to
pay to watch them! The performances in the ring are only the result
of so many lessons. It’s when school is out, or the tremendous pupil
is playing hookey, that the true elephant nature comes forth, and
naturally that seldom happens during show hours.
[Illustration: SPRING PRACTICE IN THE YARD OF WINTER QUARTERS.]
[Illustration: THE ELEPHANT TURNS NATURALLY TO CLOWNING.]
No matter what natural science may have to say about it, an elephant
has a dual personality. The sage is intermittently present, with his
nervousness, his concentration which makes him hysterically responsive
to the slightest untoward happening, and his deliberate, carefully
conceived actions which show a slow-working but delicately perfect
brain mechanism; while opposed to all this is a school kid, just
crawling out the window of the class-room, mouth drawn down at one
corner, eyes twinkling, and two fingers wiggling in temptation to his
playmates for a session at “hookey” and a dip in the old swimmin’
pool. It is this side of the elephant nature that the ordinary person
seldom sees, and the one which the circus doesn’t advertise. For
it comes forth at about the same time that the mischievousness of the
freckled-faced kid makes its appearance, when nobody’s looking, and
when there’s a hole in the hedge that leads to the watermelon patch.
Speaking of watermelons, it was in Oklahoma, and late summer. Night.
Out on the show grounds, a mile or so away, the audience still was
packed uncomfortably upon the “fourteen-highs,” watching the last half
of the performance, while down in the railroad yards teams were tangled
about the loading runs, the pull-up horses were working ceaselessly,
workmen were shouting and straining, and the first section was fighting
against time for its get-away, that it might hurry on to the next town,
bearing the parade paraphernalia, the menagerie tent, tableau wagons,
dens, cages, led stock, elephants and whatever was possible to be taken
from the show-lot without actually affecting the main performance
itself.
Perhaps you’ve noticed sometimes, on coming from the “big top” or
main tent of a circus at night, that things seem strange, and that
you reach freedom from the dense, massing throngs much sooner than
you had believed possible? It is simply because half the circus has
departed while you have been in the main tent; while the big show has
been in progress, the menagerie, midway, horse tents, blacksmith shop,
cookhouse and practically everything except the big top itself has been
dismantled, loaded, and already is rushing on toward the next show
stand.
So, on this night, while performers worked in the big top, the first
section crew labored in the carbide-illumined stretches of the railroad
yards, struggling to save every minute that the first section might
“high-ball out.” The steel runways shrieked protestingly to their
places aboard the flat cars. The loading was finished, and from the
head of the train to the great, shadowy bulk of the stock and “bull
cars,” far down the tracks, the first section awaited the orders that
would send it jolting and bumping upon its journey of the night. The
conductor gave a command, a lantern raised, the “high-ball” whistle
piped from the engine, and the train began slowly to move.
Only to halt at the command of swift-working emergencies, as
quick-winking lanterns flashed in a hysterical sequence of “wash-out”
signals. A car-knocker had run yelping forth from the depths of the
shadows, his face a conglomeration of pinkish red, his shoulders damp
and his eyes staring.
“Robbers!” he gasped. “Robbers down there in one of those cars! They
hit me on the head!”
“Hit you?” The conductor stared. “What with?”
“A watermelon! Threw it down at me from on top of the car when I bent
over to look at the journals.”
“But--why a watermelon?”
“Well, I guess it was all they had. Anyway, it was enough! It knocked
me out. There are robbers on that car, I’m telling you. Heard ’em
moving around. I probably butted into them--discovered ’em. Beating it
out of town with a bunch of swag and I--.”
It was sufficient to hold the train. Almost anything can hold a circus
train when a town decides there’s the faintest possibility of a thief
aboard. A wild call went out for the town marshal, who responded
from the loading crossing with six hastily summoned deputies. Then,
revolvers drawn, accompanied by circus men with tent stakes and
“laying-out pins” the marshal started down the dark lane beside the
railroad cars in search of the robber band.
The posse reached the spot of the assault and called a command for
surrender. There was no reply, save a queer sound as of tremendous
things skating about inside one of the cars, and a continual sound of
joyous crunching. Again was the command given, to no purpose. About
that time, some one thought to press the button of a flashlight, and
for a full moment thereafter, the posse could only stand and gawk.
Within the “bull car” eight elephants were having the time of their
assorted lives. Here and there they skated and slipped and shambled,
sliding about in a mass of crushed watermelons, their mouths jammed
with the beloved fruit, their heads and shoulders sticky and wet
with the juice, and the whole floor of the car as slick as a skating
pond. A railroad representative arrived, became pompous, then made an
announcement:
“There’ll have to be an arrest made for this, can’t have you circus men
stealing watermelons from railroad property--.”
The boss animal man grinned.
“All right,” he said. “Go right ahead and do your arresting. But it
ain’t circus men you’ll be takin’, it’s elephants.”
As if to prove the assertion, the trunk of the leader of the herd went
forth, between the bars of the “bull car” and into the recesses of a
watermelon car on the next track, to come forth a second later with
another titbit, which was carried within the elephant car, thrown to
the floor, skated upon in kittenish fashion by the rest of the herd
as it rushed greedily forward, then devoured. Investigation showed
that one of the elephants evidently had scented the watermelons in the
opposite car, reached forth, broken the seal, then pushed open the
door, thereupon inviting the rest of the herd to the feast. Evidently
the arrival of the car-knocker had frightened one of the thieves,
causing it to drop the melon it was purloining just at that instant on
the head of the employee who had reported an attack by robbers.
In fact, thieving by elephants is a rather common occurrence. The worst
of it is that they cannot be punished for it. In spite of all the
flub-dub that goes the rounds about the cruelties that are practiced
upon animals, it is next to impossible to punish an elephant, and then
only for some major offense, such as a deliberate attempt at murder.
With the result that minor infractions can be accompanied by little
more than a scolding, which the elephant accepts in much the manner of
a small boy: he appears dreadfully downcast, cries and trumpets, goes
to his knees as though to promise that it never will happen again and
then, at the first opportunity, proceeds to do as he pleases.
A circus with which I once was connected suddenly hired two private
detectives. “Prowlers” had fastened themselves upon the show, evidently
riding the flat cars at night, and then, when the long circus train was
asleep, raiding the sleeping cars, stealing everything from pictures
to pocketbooks. In fact, from the indications, the thieves were plain
kleptomaniacs; it seemed to make little difference what they took, just
so they had something to show for their work of the night.
For a full week the detectives labored diligently, searching the cars,
investigating the personnel of the men who rode the flats at night,
even looking into the “possum bellies” beneath the coaches. Nothing was
discovered. The thieves worked like wraiths; doors were locked, but
they stole just the same. Then one morning, just before dawn, as the
two sections lay beside each other in the railroad yards, a performer
and his wife suddenly awakened with the knowledge that their covering
had been yanked from them and whisked through the open window!
The method of the thieves at last had been discovered. The nights were
hot, the windows of the coaches were open. Evidently the robber or
robbers worked with a stepladder, climbing up beside the windows and
then pilfering the berths through the open windows. But when lights
had been obtained, the car porter aroused, and the performers dressed
to proceed with an outside investigation, the theories suffered a
setback. The bull car was opposite that coach. Whereupon, the elephant
superintendent decided upon a search.
Carefully concealed in the straw bedding of the big car, the loot
was found: a silver-backed hair-brush, three pocketbooks containing
various amounts of money, two mirrors, a corset, one fringed bed cover
which evidently had just been hidden, the remains of a man’s straw
hat, fifteen photographs purloined from the decorations of the various
berths, a Titian-hued “switch,” a Palm Beach coat, the remains of a
bag of candy, four pencils, one shoe and a collar button! After that,
the two sections were spotted at different places and the mysterious
robberies ceased. That is, as far as the performers were concerned. But
the bull cars remained always a source of revenue; principally the tops
of milk cans, snatched from trucks as the circus trains passed through
the various stations.
This is humorous enough for the outsider, but sad indeed for the circus
man. From long years of tradition, there still lurks the belief that
the showman is a natural thief, and on circus day the first intimation
of a missing article leads to suspicion against the nearest person
who happens to be with the “opery.” One day we were pulling in late
and proceeding slowly that the trains might be “spotted” without the
necessity of switching. Repairs were being made on the road, and beside
the through tracks was a switch filled with hand-cars belonging to
the railroad workmen, upon which they had left their coats and dinner
buckets. No sooner had the train stopped than a red-necked section
foreman appeared with the town constable and the announcement that some
circus man, the dir-rty blaggard, had stolen four dinner pails from the
hand-cars as the circus train passed! The show denied the assertion.
The foreman reiterated it. A crowd began to gather, and there loomed in
the offing the possibility of one of those things which a circus fears
simply because it knows its own strength--a “Hey Rube,” or general
fight. Then, just when things seemed to be getting beyond control, the
circus “fixer” began to work on a system of deduction.
If there is anything which a circus man doesn’t have to bother about,
it is something to eat. The chief means by which a circus manages to
exist without paying high salaries is through providing good food and
plenty of it. Therefore, it was rather silly to believe that circus
men should steal cold luncheons when there was hot food in the offing.
There was left one real possibility and the “fixer” led the way to
the elephant cars. There were the four buckets, hidden in the straw,
their contents untouched! All of which turned out, incidentally, to
the show’s advantage. That night, the section hands brought all their
friends to the show to see the ellyphants that had stolen the dinner
buckets!
They’re a constant round of mischief, those elephants. Something’s
always happening. The show train was on the down-grade one morning,
late, and fighting to make up time so that it might at least stand a
chance of giving a performance that afternoon. Suddenly the emergencies
clamped hard, performers scattered around the sleeping cars, animals
howled, cages slipped from their fastenings and began to wobble about
the flat cars as the air pressure was exerted its utmost to halt the
progress of the speeding section. The conductor, nonplused, scrambled
along the flats, reaching the first one just as the train halted.
“What’re you stopping for?” he shouted to the engineer.
“Ask yourself the same question!” came the retort. “You flagged me
down.”
“You’re crazy!”
“Am I? Well, take a look for yourself; your brakeman’s still at it!”
The conductor looked back along the train. Far in the rear, atop a
car, a big piece of canvas was being waved wildly, frantically. Still
wondering, the conductor retraced his steps.
The train had passed through a small town a short time before. On the
next track had been a flat car loaded with a new automobile, which,
in turn was covered by a tarpaulin. The opportunity had been too
good to miss. Old Mom had reached out between the bars of the bull
car, yanked the tarpaulin off on the fly, dragged it within the car,
played tug-of-war with it for a time with the rest of the elephants,
distributing pieces to the remainder of the herd as the tarpaulin was
torn to shreds, then, in an ecstasy of play, had looked about for a
place high enough in which she might wave what was left over her head.
This had been provided in a ventilator, which she had shoved open, and
through which she had extended her trunk, with the canvas waving to
the winds. But up ahead the engineer had known nothing of the nature
of elephants. He had seen only trouble, and he had clamped on those
emergencies.
To tell the truth, clamping on the emergencies is about the most
frequent thing about the circus when the elephants are concerned. No
one ever is able to tell what they’re going to do, or when they’re
going to do it. Their prankishness runs the whole gamut of everything
that ever entered the head of a ten-year-old boy; their curiosity is
worse than that of a monkey; and their uncertainty is as widespread as
that of the proverbial flighty woman. Which leads to the adventure of
Alice and the tin can.
Alice was a bulbous young lady of some forty-five seasons under the
big tops, and carrying seven tons of avoirdupois. As sometimes happens
when the feminine goes to bulk, she enjoyed dainty things and light
exercises, such as smashing tin cans. If there was anything that Alice
loved, it was a city junk heap, where the universe was one vast expense
of cans, to do with as she chose. When Alice became “logy” during the
hot days, or afflicted with colic, or dumpy and ill-at-ease and down on
the world in general, the bull-keeper gave her none of the restoratives
which he applied to the rest of the herd. He merely asked the route to
the city dump and led Alice there. That night she would be her own
bulbous self again, happy and serene, while the tin-can section of the
dump heap resembled the path of a steam roller.
The elephant seemed to gain a strange delight from the sensation of
applying her weight to a can and squashing it, and the more cans, the
more happiness. I have even seen the elephant deliberately drop the
tail of her predecessor in parade, walk out of line, apply one massive
hoof to a can in a gutter, squeal with delight, and then trot back to
her work. But Alice mashes tin cans no longer. She is cured.
It happened about five years ago on the circus grounds in a small
town in California. Alice had been working. At least, she had been
pretending that she was working. In company with a male elephant who
really was doing all the labor, Alice had been carefully placing her
bulky head about an eighth of an inch from the back ends of circus
wagons; then, snorting, squealing and apparently straining every
muscle, she had allowed the other elephant to do all the work while
she, in turn, kept her eye out for a stray can.
It was the noon hour. The parade had returned, the cookhouse was in
full swing, crowded by performers and workingmen. At one side was a
collection of four or five five-gallon cans, which once had contained
pie apples and which had been opened only enough to allow their
contents to be poured forth by the rushing cookhouse crew. Alice
spotted them. Then Alice looked toward the bull-man. He was fifty feet
away, talking to the boss of the herd. Quietly--and an elephant can
move so softly that it is almost impossible to hear it--Alice veered
away from the wagon she had been pretending to push, smashed a can
or two, then halted with a marvelous discovery. There was something
sweet-smelling inside, the remains of the apple contents. Alice moved
to the next can and investigated. In went the trunk, its “fingers”
working in investigative fashion. The elephant scooped up a part of
the residue, tasted it, liked it and reached for more, the work this
time being a bit difficult, owing to the fact that there wasn’t much
left. And as Alice pushed the end of her trunk about inside that can,
she allowed a catastrophe to plump upon her. Absent-mindedly she forgot
that her trunk was inside, and allowed the old smashing urge to return.
Up went a heavy foot, poised over the can, and then came down!
The next thing the circus knew, one end of the cookhouse had departed,
while performers were scattering, tables were overturned, canvas
fluttered in the breeze, and a screeching elephant ran wildly for the
free and open country, her trunk waving wildly in a vain effort to
rid itself of a five-gallon can which had clamped upon it with the
tightness of a vise. A small tree got in the way, then got out, roots,
branches and all. Whistles shrilled on the circus lot, bull-men ran
for fast horses, animal attendants rushed wildly from their work in
the menagerie to scurry forth upon a path of broken fences, disabled
back yards, uprooted saplings and what-not, while far in the distance
Alice still plunged on, the can still clinging to its victim, like a
cream pitcher on the head of a cat. A half-hour later they caught her,
chained her and removed the can, while Alice squealed and trumpeted
her delight. Then, free at last, she looked at the thing which had
distressed her, jumped on it with swift-moving forefeet and crushed it
to a flat mass, gingerly examined it, pronounced it safe, then raised
it and threw it as far as the sweep of her trunk permitted. After
which, a bit saddened, still grunting and “talking” to herself, she
returned to the show grounds. Now Alice passes up tin cans. There’s a
sort of disdain about her action. No more does the city dump resemble a
sort of heaven to her. Once was too much. She’s on the wagon.
However, “the wagon” is not mentioned in the alcoholic sense. I have
yet to see the elephant that is a believer in prohibition. Which
reminds me of a beer party that still is circus history, and which led
to one of the queerest exhibitions of the circus business.
It happened in Venice, California, where a big show maintained its
winter quarters for a season. Things had been a bit slack in the line
of entertainment and the menagerie crew had decided upon a Dutch lunch,
timing it so that there would be no interruption from the manager. The
usual limburger and wienies were purchased, as well as the necessary
Dill pickles and the case of beer. Everything was set. The luncheon was
spread; the menagerie crew was about to seat itself when there came a
hurried announcement from the night watchman, entering on the run:
“Nix! Ditch the eats and the brew! Here comes the Old Man!”
Frenzied activity. One concerted swoop and the food had been piled
into a covered grain box, while the case of beer was hidden in the
straw behind the elephant line. When the owner entered with a group of
persons whom he had brought on a sight-seeing tour, the menagerie house
presented only a dormant place, with men sleeping beneath the cages and
the night watchman propped back in a chair. The Old Man led the way to
the picket line.
“Now here are the elephants,” he began, “we--” Then he halted at the
sight of one of the herd nonchalantly taking a drink from a bottle!
“Night watch!” he called. “Rajah’s got a bottle--take it away from him!
He’s liable to cut himself.”
But Rajah wouldn’t let go. He flapped his ears and trumpeted and
squealed--but held on. Just then the owner noticed something more; the
fact that the leader of the herd had raised another bottle, regarded it
calmly, as a toper would test the clearness of the brew, then placing
it on the ground, had pried off the cap with a big toenail and now was
drinking also! There came an excited accusation to the effect that his
night watchman was attempting to get the herd drunk. Only one thing was
possible, a confession of the facts, and the watchman made it. For a
moment the owner frowned. Then:
“You know I kick against drinking around these quarters. But--” and he
grinned--“you’ve given me a hunch that’s worth it. Tell the boys to go
ahead with their shindig.”
The next day an advertisement appeared. The circus paid a great share
of its winter quarters’ expenses that year by charging an admission
price to see the elephants drink beer!
Incidentally, it was this same winter which brought forth another
unusual attraction,--that of the biggest rat-killer in the world. The
animal barn was not the newest place in the world, and in the wall
beside Beelgie’s position in the picket line, was a rat-hole. One day a
rat came forth.
Beelgie jumped, squealed and struck with his trunk, all at the same
instant, and got the rodent! The animal men saw him quiver with
fright, strain at his chains, flop about as though to incite the rest
of the herd to flight, fail, and then, pulling back, regard for a long
moment the intruder which he had killed. At last, satisfied, he turned
his attention upon the rat-hole, and watched it carefully, at last
sliding down on his haunches, with his trunk tight curled, ready for
the next invasion.
All afternoon he remained in that position; no cat was ever more
faithful. But the intruder didn’t arrive. Whereupon a menagerie man,
with a sense of humor, got an idea.
The next morning Beelgie again took a look at the rat-hole. And as he
did, a rodent popped forth!
Whang-g-g-g!
An elephantine trunk had descended, and Beelgie, squealing and
fretting, slumped again into his watchful position. No more than he had
set himself than another appeared, only to pop back into the hole the
minute Beelgie struck at him. Nor could the worried elephant know that
the intruder was nothing but a stuffed affair, fastened by a strong
rubber band to the interior of the hole and pulled forth at will by
a fine wire in the hands of the menagerie attendant across the barn.
In fact, Beelgie knew nothing except the fact that the Pied Piper of
Hamelin had nothing on him. Three rats. Three blows. Three deaths. So
far he was batting a thousand, and he settled himself for an all-day
vigil. Word of it traveled to the management. The populace that winter
bought the hay for the elephants. Or rather Beelgie bought it, as the
chief exhibit, because he killed that stuffed rat, regularly, ten or
fifteen times a day until the show took to the road again, and the
townspeople paid their dimes to see him do it! Everything’s grist in
the circus mill.
Everything but Sunday on the lot. For then, as a general rule, it’s
the other way round, especially when the elephants are concerned. It
is necessary, except when a long run is to be made and a tremendous
distance bridged between two towns, for a circus to “Sunday on the
lot,” that is: set up its tents, clean the circus from end to end,
repaint poles, repair damage that has been done during the hard
traveling of the week, rest the horses and animals, and in general make
ready for another six days of constant effort and fighting against time
that the show may live true to its billing and its promises of “two
performances a day, rain or shine.” It is a time of general overhauling
and of rest, a time of relaxation; the elephants’ delight, and the
bull-man’s misery. For it is during Sunday on the lot--just as it is
with a great many small boys on Sunday--that the elephants think up
most of their prankishness. When a “bull” becomes mischievous, it costs
money.
One Sunday night in Texas, the night watchman, making his final rounds,
noticed that every elephant stood sleepily at the picket pin, and then
rolled under a lion cage for a few hours’ sleep of his own. Dawn came
and he awoke. All the elephants were still there; everything was quiet.
But not so an hour later!
An irate brickyard keeper had appeared, with a sleepy-eyed attorney,
hastily summoned from bed. The elephants had ruined his place during
the night! A brick kiln had been demolished, piles of bricks scattered
and destroyed, the mixer overturned and broken, and the various stacks
of tile shattered. The elephants had done it. There began the argument.
The elephants couldn’t have done it; they hadn’t been out of the
menagerie! The night watchman testified to the fact; the menagerie
workers told of having seen the elephants when they left at night and
when they arrived at dawn, perfectly peaceable at the stake line. The
argument grew warmer. The legal adjuster was summoned, and then some
one suggested that they go to the brickyard.
There the evidence was irrefutable. Everywhere showed the big tracks
of an elephant, and the chase led back to the circus. There was no way
to controvert the statements of the brickyard owner now. There were
no other elephants within a thousand miles. And so the search for the
culprit began, to finish as rapidly. Old Mom, the leader of the herd,
had been caught red-handed.
Or rather, red-legged. The whole rear expanse of her hind legs, from
her hoofs to her hips, was beautifully rouged with brick dust, where
she had backed up to a pile of bricks and scratched herself! She had
untied the half-hitch of her chain from the picket stake, carefully
carried it in her trunk, gone under the side wall, enjoyed a night out,
wrecked the brickyard, then returned to the menagerie tent and with
one twisting toss--a trick, incidentally, which she took delight in
teaching other elephants--had placed that half-hitch back on the stake
again!
Nor was Old Mom’s trick unusual. It seems characteristic of elephants
to desire to take a night out for themselves every so often.
In August, a few years ago, a big show was spending Sunday night on a
fair grounds. It was hot, sultry. Three times that day the elephants
had been watered at an old hand-pump close to the menagerie tent; in
fact, the whole circus had been forced to gain its water from this
source.
Three-thirty o’clock came in the morning. The menagerie superintendent,
sleeping in the animal tent, awoke drowsily to the sound of incessant
pumping. On and on it went--pump, pump, pump, squeak, squeak,
squeak--accompanied by the intermittent splashing of water. Minute
after minute he lay there, wondering when those men ever would get
their buckets filled, and speculating as to why circus workmen should
be so eager for water at this hour of the morning. Then suddenly there
came to him the possibility of fire. He rose hurriedly, ducked under
the side wall, stared into the semidarkness, and then stood for a
solid five minutes, watching, and laughing. Out there at the pump was
an elephant which evidently had become thirsty and had sneaked from
the picket line, remembering that pump and the coolness of the water.
It was he that was making the noise, he who was working the pump. The
ground about him was a muddy mass from the outpourings of the faucet,
for there had been a difficulty about it all. He evidently had been
there for hours, striving to work the pump-handle with his trunk and at
the same time get it under the spout! At last:
“Hey, Major! What the dickens are you trying to do there?”
The elephant halted. He had done wrong in sneaking away, and he knew
it. Squealing excitedly, he jumped from the side of the pump, skidded
in lopsided fashion through the mud, ducked under the side walling
and ran so hard to take his place in line again that he missed in his
calculations and upset a cage, which cost seventy-five dollars to
repair. There’s usually a bill to be paid somewhere when an elephant
takes a vacation!