THE GENERAL MANAGER
The brisk and bustling person who predominates in the stir and
activity, hurry and excitement at the main entrance, is the general
manager. Nothing seems to escape his watchful eve and alert ear.
He answers questions innumerable and all-embracing, settles all
disputes as to admission, conveys advice, makes suggestions, gives
orders, sends lieutenants all over the lot with instructions, sees
to it that the crowd gets in safely but without delay, watches
ticket-seller and ticket-taker, and is in general active charge of the
“door.”
His is a very important department of circus life, requiring peculiar
natural talents, wide experience, correct knowledge of law and logic,
familiarity with affairs, and ability to manipulate men and mayors. The
grave responsibilities of the circus are his and they are enough to
weaken brain and body.
He is one of the first men off the cars in the morning and his day
frequently ends when all his comrades are sleeping with the peace
and vigor perfect health and a clear conscience afford. There is no
working hour when some one of his multifarious duties does not claim
his attention. He is first of all a license and contract specialist.
There is nothing about their force or character or price in any part
of the country he has not at his finger ends. The pecuniary cost to
the show of the privileges it enjoys is entirely in his keeping. His
morning is devoted to municipal and county officers and office holders.
His long service has made him personally acquainted with many of them
in all parts of the country. He belongs to nearly all secret societies
and social organizations, which helps his purposes; he distributes
admission tickets with lavish freedom where they will “do good;” his
instinct tells him how long to entertain and not bore, and his errand
over, a favorable impression remains. The result has been the promise
of gratuitous official favors and almost invariably a reduced rate for
permits.
The policing of the grounds and the protection of the show and of
its patrons are in the general manager’s charge. In this the circus
detective is his ally and adviser, but the burden of results is his. He
assures the chief of police of the honest motives of the organization,
tells him no thieves or criminals are tolerated, promises that there
shall be no disorder or violence on the part of the circus people, and
asks in return protection and cooperation. How inadequately the police
of many towns can meet the needs of the occasion is told in another
chapter of this book.
The circus is subject to a system of plunder, blackmail and robbery
en route that is unheard of in any other business. All classes of
people seem ready to render a hand in the nefarious game, considering
the circus fair prey. It requires the most diplomatic management
to extricate the show without financial loss or legal proceedings,
and frequently, after all, it must submit to extortion to escape
attachments. These are usually levied upon the ticket wagon just before
the evening performance or upon a pole wagon as the tents are being
pulled down. This sort of legal robbery occurs in many towns. The show
may think it is getting off all right when suddenly some accident, some
chance injury to property or persons, affords an excuse for a levy.
An amusing incident among the varied pretexts for “hold up” was that
we encountered in Biddeford, Maine. The day had progressed without
untoward incident and at nine o’clock we thought the chance of legal
trouble was past. Then, suddenly, appeared an irate resident, whose
home adjoined the lot, with the declaration that our monkey cage cat
was his wife’s, and with a demand that we return her forthwith. He
may have been laboring under a truly mistaken impression, but his
subsequent conduct made us believe not, for upon our decided refusal,
he made an attachment. The general manager decided then to grant the
visitor’s claim; the feline wasn’t worth legal bother and expenditure.
The proceeding cost the circus nine dollars in fees and left the
monkeys in mourning. It had been their playful practice to convey
struggling tabby to the top of the cage and then hurl her violently to
the floor.
I recall the case of a Westerner who insisted that one of our elephants
had eaten his pig. Neighbors swarmed to the scene, ready with a tale
of having seen the huge beast’s trunk encircle the squealing victim
and thrust him into a capacious mouth. The owner wanted twenty-five
dollars. A canvasman, sent to investigate, found the porker under an
adjacent house.
It is the solution of these and far more serious similar problems,
that are a highly important branch of the general manager’s work, and
upon his management and disposition of them depends much money and
annoyance. If the grievance is just and fair, he is ready to make ample
financial reimbursement. He expects and receives imposition, but if not
carried too far, he settles for cash and gets a full legal release.
If the demand made is outrageous in amount, and the claimant stubborn
and menacing and uncompromising, then, to his astonished dismay, he is
told to carry out his threats as he sees fit. Of course, the delay of
a trial or even a hearing would cost the circus thousands of dollars,
but the general manager has provided against this contingency. In every
town the circus exhibits, there, too, is the representative of the
American Surety Company, prepared with surety for any amount. The levy
is made, accepted with unconcern, financial pledge is given, and the
show moves to the train and away. It is all very perplexing and painful
to the man with the exaggerated sense of affliction, and he wishes he
had been more moderate in speech and demand and not so hasty in action.
If an amicable settlement be not made out of court, he finds that the
circus will fight him to the bitter legal end.
The general manager appears like magic when there is an accident
or injury in which the circus is involved. These are of almost
daily occurrence. The lion or tiger may gleefully claw the too
far outstretched hand of the curious boy; a horse perhaps kicks
or bites; there are runaways and runovers, and a variety of other
mishaps extending from cars to lot and from arrival to departure. The
general manager always strives to be at the scene ahead of the artful
lawyer, who would fain share in the damages. He is apologetic and
regretful, offers cash remuneration and receives a written statement of
satisfaction. Not until then does he breathe freely; but rest assured
that in the transaction he has given no outward indication of his
troubled mind and that in the bargain he has made the circus has not
come out second best. The show people who watch him daily grow to look
on him as ubiquitous.
Many and marvellous are the tales told him with the design of securing
free admission. The street commissioner is a permanent applicant.
The general manager knows the story by heart. The heavy pole wagons
have damaged the highways; a few tickets will wipe out the injury.
He generally gets in. The man whose land has been encroached upon by
the tents; the policeman with the small army of eager children; the
householder who avers the elephant’s prehensile trunk mutilated an
inviting tree; the alderman’s brother; the clergyman who declares
he has always heretofore been a welcome guest, and the long list of
others with claim to recognition, get a hearing with varying success.
The policeman is the most persistent. The circus is in a measure at
his mercy and he is insatiable. He becomes a numerous husband and his
relatives are legion. It is for the general manager to get quarter
and he must go about it without offending; for there may be need for
blue-coated service before the day is done, and the show must not lose
official favor.
“Plain-clothes” men, the policemen assigned to duty at circus in
ordinary street attire, are usually a nuisance. In the smaller towns
they have little or no conception of their duties--to watch out for
crooks without exciting suspicion--and they hover about the entrance,
proud to be on familiar and confidential terms with the management,
“passing-in” acquaintances, bothering with questions and generally
obstructing the smooth progress of things. Their detective instinct
and experience are nil, and their questionable value to the circus is
confined to knowing the town drunkard and the tough of local notoriety,
whose demeanor is sober and demure enough when opposed to the ready
rank and file of the show.
Numerous special officers and sheriff’s deputies have been sworn in
for the occasion. These throw wide their coats, displaying to the
ticket-taker their badges of office fastened to suspender or waistcoat,
and are permitted to enter the tents. Their presence is needed,
the general manager has been gravely assured, to aid in the police
arrangements in the contingency of riot or panic. The circus knows, of
course, that they are the friends and relatives of the official heads
of the town, who manage, with the immunity from payment the badge
conveys, to see the show free. In case of trouble or a call for their
services not one of them would respond.
When the general manager is in a facetious mood and has an idle moment,
we have a stock joke ready for the “plain clothes” arrayed at the door.
I bustle up to the ropes, throw open my coat as if revealing a hidden
badge of office; the doortender, who enjoys the diversion immensely,
nods assent and I pass in. Then the stolid wits of the detectives
operate and they move in a body to the serious-visaged manager and
whisper that he has been imposed upon, that I am a stranger and not
a special officer as I represented, and therefore not entitled to
admission. My friend waxes very indignant, I, agitated and crestfallen,
am led back to the entrance, lectured sternly and threatened with
arrest as an impostor, and ejected. The detective force, glutted with
pride over the masterly accomplishment, receives profuse thanks. Later
the manager and I have a hearty laugh together.
The canvasmen and teamsters, hearty, brawny fellows, and peaceable
unless inflamed with liquor, all respect and esteem the manager and
appreciate that, while he is unrelentingly severe when there is an
infraction of rules, his discipline is always fair and impartial. He
plays no favorites. For profanity and vulgarity he will accept no
mitigating excuse. In Johnstown, Pa., we were walking to the lot one
beautiful Sunday morning when the loud oaths of a driver attracted our
attention. He was directing his foul expressions at a child, who in its
curiosity to see the gorgeous wagon, had narrowly escaped being run
over. Residents, sitting at windows or on piazzas, were shocked at the
vile outpouring. They had never before appreciated the resources of the
language.
“Come down off the seat!” sternly commanded the manager, his face grim
and hard with anger. “Now, go get your pay. You are discharged.”
Then he mounted the red and gilded heights of the vehicle, clucked to
the eight horses and drove like a veteran to the show grounds. The
staff detective was instructed to see to it that the culprit was not
permitted on the lot.
We showed two days in Pittsburg and there was afforded an opportunity
to witness the wealth of resource, the courage, the tactful skill and
the untiring energy of the man. All went smoothly and serenely the
first day. Then came Saturday, when the workmen of the circus received
their weekly pay. Across the street from the tents was a combined
saloon and hotel, which at once became the focus of dissipation. A
wave of inebriety seemed to sweep in upon teamsters and canvasmen. One
by one they became extremely drunk and reduced new-found friends to
the same condition. By night all order and decency had been abandoned
and they stood about the bar or lot shouting and swearing, and making
threats with knives or clubs. The season was just beginning and time
had been too short for a discovery and weeding out of the tough
characters among the help. The owner was making a hurried visit to his
home, three hundred miles distant, and the general manager met the
critical situation alone. How he managed to conduct the performance,
to break camp with the few employees who remained staunch and true,
and to load the trains and move out of the city, none of our feeble
brains could ever grasp. But he accomplished it without serious delay,
without an affray of consequence, and with a finish and skill which
veiled from the public the fact that anything out of the usual was
happening. Before the start from the railroad yard there was a careful
and systematic count of men, stock, wagons, baggage and apparatus, for
some of the drivers, continuing the debauch, had deserted their horses
and vehicles in front of saloons. All were finally rounded up. The
transgression cost seventy-five men their positions, and for the rest
of the season other circuses marvelled at our state of grace and piety.
The general manager is rich in worldly possessions and free with cash
and credit. When one’s supply of money runs short, from “butcher” to
man of high rank, he turns for temporary relief to his more fortunate
and more provident comrade. His wants are always supplied, except in
isolated instances, for not to pay a just debt entails the blight
of universal condemnation and loss of confidence and honor. It is
in winter, when the general manager is hiding from mankind in a
Florida shelter, that the demands come fast and urgent and never pass
unheeded. For then it is that the thriftless circus man, who knows no
business except that which warm weather provides, is in a pecuniary
predicament. The manager’s bounty extends to his friends in all parts
of the country, but a few weeks of the next season sees it returned to
him with grateful appreciation.