“THE CIRCUS MAN’S BEST FRIEND”
A long time ago, when I was a yellow-haired boy—I’m bald and a bit old
now—the Wild West Show of Buffalo Bill came to town, and I was one of
those lucky persons who could set the alarm clock, and then, in answer
to its call, watch the circus arrive without even budging out of bed.
For I lived near the “show lot” where all the big circuses gave their
exhibits, and I felt that life held something more for me than for the
ordinary boy.
I say I _could_ watch the show without leaving bed. But I didn’t.
No boy does. And it happened that during the course of the morning,
wandering about, I came upon a canvas man bending over a ripped portion
of the circus tent where it lay stretched on the ground, striving
aimlessly to sew the rent with a broken needle.
“Hello, kid!” he greeted me. “Run home and get me a good needle, will
you?”
“Gi’ me a ticket to the show?” I asked in reply.
“No—I can’t. They don’t let us working fellows give tickets away.”
Just the same, I got the needle, and on my return, the canvas man
looked up with a grin.
“You kids are the best friends we’ve got!” he announced, and I ran
home to tell the news,—that a circus man had said that boys were the
best—
But there came a sniff from my sister.
“He only said that because he wanted the needle,” was her caustic
comment. “I notice he didn’t give you a ticket.”
Twenty years later, I stood on the steps of my private car, and
strangely enough it was one of the managerial cars of the show of which
Buffalo Bill formed the chief feature. Things had changed a bit since
the olden days when I salvaged the needle. Now I counted Buffalo Bill
as my friend and comrade, the destinies of six hundred people and two
great trains of circus paraphernalia were under my partial control and—
“Kid,” I said, as a boy passed and I leaned out from the vestibule,
“run over to the circus lot and ask the boss canvas man if he’s going
to be able to get the tent up on time for the afternoon show. We got in
here late, you know.”
“Yes, sir!” and the boy was gone. Five minutes later, he returned,
panting. “He’s going to get it up all right.”
“Thanks,” I said, and grinned. “You kids are the best friends we’ve
got.”
Then something crossed my mind,—a picture of twenty years before. I
reached into a pocket for my pad of reserved seat passes.
“Guess you’ve got a friend?” I asked, and the boy nodded. A moment
later, he was running away shouting,—and clasping tight at tickets for
two grand-stand seats.
Nor was it all memory that prompted the gift of three dollars’ worth of
seats for a ten-cent errand. It was the general knowledge that I had
spoken the truth, and that this boy represented other boys,—boys who
not a week before had saved the whole circus, who had made it possible
for the doors to open, and the thronging mass of people, representing
thousands and thousands of dollars, to crowd through the main gates and
in to the performance. More, were it not for the boys of the United
States, the boys who cluster about the long circus trains in the gray
of morning, who rally to the call of the boss canvas man and stay by
him through thick and thin until the last stringer is laid and the last
duty done,—the big circuses of the country would not be able to run at
all! Therefore, is it any wonder that we call them our buddies?
The boys, collectively, and that includes youngsters from twelve to
eighteen years of age, are counted upon by the circus as a part of
their equipment, in just as important a sense as the railroad cars
themselves, or the tents or the performers and executive staff. And for
this reason:
[Illustration: THE BOYS ARE COUNTED UPON AS A PART OF THE EQUIPMENT.
_Page 182._]
[Illustration: ENOUGH SEATS MUST BE PUT INTO PLACE TO ACCOMMODATE A
WHOLE VILLAGE. _Page 186._]
The present-day circus is too gigantic a thing to be handled by its
creators alone, where the matter of manual labor is concerned. The
tremendous spread of canvas, the vast amount of “hand work”, the
intricate details, the necessity for hundreds, yes, even thousands of
hands ready to grasp this piece of trapping or that bit of rope, these
things are too numerous and great in expanse to be coped with by the
ordinary amount of labor which can be carried on the long trains.
Often, too, it is impossible to procure that labor. The inroads of
harvest time in Kansas, the lure of high wages at the various mines
when the shows strike the metal belts, the constant drift and flow of
men make it next to impossible at times to procure the necessary number
of laborers needed to daily erect the numberless tents which cluster
about the “big top”, and to put into place the tier upon tier of seats
needed for the influx of the matinée and night crowds. But the show
cannot stop for that. It is an inexorable rule of circusdom that the
show must go on—on—in spite of rain, in spite of fire and flood, in
spite of wrecks, of illness or death.
Therefore, the shortage or absence of workmen cannot and must not stop
the circus. Nor does it; for there is always one element that can be
depended upon, always one group of persons who will not fail,—the boys.
And it is to them that the circus looks for aid in all times and for
salvation in the hour of need.
What do they do? Theirs are the willing tasks that can be achieved
better by youthful hands than by stronger ones; theirs the enthusiasm
that even the loyal “roughneck”—and those coarse men of the circus
_are_ loyal—cannot fulfill in as good a measure. On every circus, at
the time the regular admission tickets are printed and the gilded
passes put into their pads and apportioned to the various agents and
members of the executive staff, great piles of square, white tickets
are also given out to the bosses of the working crews. And these
tickets—passes in truth—are labelled with something fraught with
meaning:
“BOY’S TICKET.”
They are the tickets that some day during the long season, some gloomy
hour in the progress of the big show, may save the circus! But first to
the ordinary dependence upon the best friend that the circus possesses,
the boy:
You’ll hear the call early in the morning, even before the switch
engines have ceased clanging, and the steel runs have been shoved to
the ground by the cook house crew and razorbacks, that the cook house
and range wagons may be run from the flat cars and transported to
the circus lot for the preparation of breakfast. You’ll hear it from
the leather lungs of the boss canvas man and his assistant, busy in
the rounding up of the “big top” crew in the semi-darkness; from the
lips of the head menagerie men down at the big cars which convey the
elephants or “bulls”, the horses or “ring stock”, and the smaller,
hay-eating animals of the menagerie, known as the “led stock.” You’ll
hear it echoing all along the lengthy sections of the circus train, the
same message voiced in different tongues:
“Hey, boys! Step lively there! Want to go to the circus?”
And the call is always answered. As the long pole and “stringer” wagons
pull away from the circus train, drawn by their broad-backed draught
stock of from eight to twelve horses, you’ll find perched upon those
wagons the inevitable clusters of town urchins, beginning their work
of the day. As the “led stock” starts on its tramp to the lot, you’ll
find the leaders to be the youngsters who have arisen long before
daybreak “to see the circus come in.” As the canvas wagons depart, they
too will have their apportionment of youthful workers, and more than
once, standing beside the boss canvas man on some gloomy, drizzling
morning, I’ve seen him nod his head and heard the cheery remark that
all circus men yearn for:
“Oh, we’ll get up in good time to-day! The lot’s a little sandy, and
it’s a long haul, but we’ll make it. There are plenty of boys!”
In that last sentence lies the explanation. It means that the
difficulties which the weather has placed upon the circus have been
overcome by an outside influence, that the obstacles in the path of the
show have been met and conquered through an ever ready ally,—the boys.
How willing they are! When the big top, or main tent, is stretched,
preparatory to the raising, boys are side by side with the regular
workmen of the circus, pulling and tugging away at the heavy sheets of
tenting, so that they may be laced into place about the bale-rings of
the center poles. When the “stringer” and “jack” and “plank wagons”,
carrying the various portions of the seating arrangements, pull into
position, it is the boys who drag the loads from the pile into which
they are tossed and lug them into place under the canvas. When there is
straw to be sprinkled over wet or muddy ground, you’ll find there long
strings of youngsters hurrying along at a “double”, their arms full of
straw, an endless chain of activity, all working toward the end that
the circus grounds may be inviting for the circus throngs, all imbued
within a moment, it seems, with that rule of circusdom: “The show must
go on!”
The morning is the rush time of the circus. In only a few hours, the
big show must be unloaded from the trains which have brought it from
the last town and hauled to the circus grounds, a distance varying from
a quarter of a mile to three miles. From twelve to fifteen tents must
be laid out and raised, the cook house, the horse tents, the blacksmith
shop, the menagerie tents, the side show, the dressing “top”, the
“juice joints” or lemonade stands, and the “big top” itself, covering
alone a space ranging from three to five hundred feet long, and from a
hundred and fifty to two hundred and fifty feet wide. Into this big top
must be placed seating arrangements for from five thousand to fifteen
thousand persons. And did you ever stop to consider what a tremendous
throng fifteen thousand persons really is? It means that enough seats
must be put into place to accommodate a whole village; that the people
themselves, if placed in a single line, and each one occupying a foot
of space, would stretch for nearly three miles!
Seats for three miles of humanity! And all raised within a few hours,
at a time when every section of the lot is clamoring for aid. The
parade must be made ready. The wagons must be washed and cleansed, if
they have been in mud the day before. The cages of the cat animals must
be cleaned, food must be brought for the greedy elephants, the rough
spots of the hippodrome track must be cleared away with hoe and grub
hook, lest a hummock bring death to some rider, or break an axle of the
plunging chariots, with the attendant injury to horse, driver, and even
the spectators. Everything is happening at once; for every hand there
is a double burden. And it is then that the boy is more than welcomed.
The seats are placed in position mainly through his aid. The quarter
poles, which support that part of the tent leading from the ridge to
the eaves, are raised by him. The outer poles, supporting the canvas at
the spots where the guy ropes leave the eaves to be connected to the
stakes, stand staunch and true to their duty through the exertion of
youthful muscle. The thousand errands of the circus lot are run, the
hay and straw are distributed through the menagerie, the ponies are
cared for, and—
But there is one thing that is not done! No water is carried for the
elephants! That is a relic of a bygone day. In these times, the big
circus is too efficient, too jealous of every possible moment of time
saved, to allow boys to carry water for elephants. That is taken care
of by a special water trough which is carried by the show, and which is
unloaded at the nearest fire hydrant, and to which the elephants are
led. There are too many other duties for the boys to permit them to
waste time and effort watering elephants!
It is a fight against time, every moment, every second. Downtown the
bands are blaring and the crowds watching the various samples of
tinsel and spangle which the show puts on view to lure the throngs to
the circus lot. Minutes are passing. By one o’clock, everything must
be ready. Barking shouts sound from the bosses around the lot, but by
a staunch rule of the circus, there is little swearing. For a reason
of business efficiency, to say nothing of the moral side. If there is
swearing and coarseness, parents may refuse to allow their boys to help
“put up the show.” And without those boys, there may be disaster. One
o’clock drawing nearer, nearer. Then the gates must be opened and the
waiting crowds allowed to enter. It seems impossible, yet it is done. I
have seen the circus in many a tight place. And I have seen it pulled
out of that tight place—by boys!
For instance, Astoria, Oregon. If you never have been there, let it
be known that Astoria is a town built upon stilts. Owing to the tides
which back up the Columbia, it was necessary, in building the town, to
raise it above the seepage and creeping influx of the water, with the
result that there is not a vacant lot in the whole city that is on a
level with the streets. More, the one lot which could be reached by the
circus—it was the Sells Floto-Buffalo Bill Show in 1916—was nearly a
foot deep in sand.
The menagerie was left on the sort of bridge-viaduct which formed the
main street of the town. The show lot was twenty feet below this level,
with not a single runway or incline by which the wagons could be taken
on the lot itself. Every bit of canvas, every stringer, every piece
of paraphernalia, every pole, every chandelier, absolutely everything
which went into the making of that circus, must be placed on that
lot by hand and carried through the shifting sand from fifty to five
hundred feet!
It was almost impossible to unload. The elephants, used in pulling and
pushing the heavy wagons from the trains, broke through the boarding
of the causeways, and squealing, retreated, for an elephant is afraid
of an unsound footing. The horses were nearly useless. An hour passed,
two—three. The owner of the show, traveling along with it for a few
weeks, sought out Bill Curtis, the boss canvas man.
“We’re not going to be able to make it!” he announced.
Bill smiled. “Yes, we will!”
“How?”
“I’ve got Shorty and Fullhouse out in town, rounding up every boy they
can find. They’ll pull us through.”
And they did! Back came Shorty. Back came Fullhouse, both of them
looking like modern editions of the Pied Piper of Hamelin, followed by
throngs of boys, ranging from youngsters of eight and nine to youths
of nineteen and twenty. Here and there the groups were placed. Sharp
orders were shouted; a military preciseness and crispness of command
seemed to have come into the air. Among the waiting volunteers walked
Bill Curtis, eyes narrowed, lips grim.
“It’s up to you, Boys!” he announced, time after time. “We can’t make
it—we’re stuck. Are you going to save the show?”
The answer was the usual one that a boy would give under such
circumstances. Clambering, hurrying forms rushed about the wagons.
Skids were placed. A thousand hands helped to shunt the big center
poles to the lot and then carry them to place. The stringers, the
jacks, the canvas itself,—one by one the parts of the big circus went
into place; and at two o’clock, only an hour late, the show opened its
doors to a crowd that, up to that time, had been the biggest in all its
history!
And this is the story of the boy in more places than one during the
journey of the circus. When the wreck comes and the battered trains
pull into town hours late, the boys are the ones who help to drag it to
the lot and to raise it into place that the show may go on. When storm
strikes it and the tents are flattened, again it is the boy who helps
to pull the big show out of the hole. Always happy, always willing,
always loyal even to the extent of sore muscles and blistered hands, he
is ready for any task and any duty. And let it be said, to the credit
of the circus, that it does not forget and that it does not fail in
its part of the promise. The minute the task is done, each straw boss
hurries to the superintendent with his list of names, to return a
moment later with the reward of faithful duty, the ticket to the show
which had been promised in the beginning.
Nor is the actual putting up of the show the only manner in which the
friendship of the boy is counted upon in the circus world. It is to
him that the circus looks to spread the news of its coming, coincident
with the placing of the first glaring bills. Upon him devolves the
real enthusiasm of the parade; for what is a clown band or a clown
policeman without his throng of boys trailing along in the rear? Is the
calliope really worth while if it does not have its crowd of youthful
attendants? Hardly! The boy and his love of the circus have the real
job of making a parade enjoyable. For by their interest is gauged the
interest of the crowds which line the curbings to watch.
More, the boy is counted upon every step of the way. Long before the
circus comes to town, he often has done his duty and earned his pass,
in helping the billposters with their tasks, or by distributing the
thousands of heralds, or advertising leaflets, by which the show makes
its house-to-house canvas.
As for the performance—
The circus has its reasons for everything. If it is a good circus—and
most of them try to be good—it will have a performance which is worth
while, the best that its status in the show world can afford. And
you’ll notice that if you’ve ever been a boy, the ticket you’ve earned
to the circus has admitted you to the afternoon performance! The
reasons were many.
In the first place, the circus has been grateful. It wants to pay its
debt, and no boy likes to wait from noon until night for his reward.
In the second place, it is the enthusiasm of the boy which makes
or unmakes the circus performance. The howls of joy, the shouts
of laughter when the clowns come tumbling in, are infectious. They
spread from the youngsters to the older folks; they travel here and
there about the high-piled tiers of seats. The adult grin spreads and
develops into a chuckle,—and the chuckle to an uproarious laugh. The
enjoyment invades everything, and when the performance is over, the
thousands troop out with a smile lingering upon their features, with
enjoyment in their hearts; and a part of it, at least, was due to that
first outbreak of happiness from the boys themselves.
So, with all this on their side of the ledger, with story after story
in the annals of circusdom where boys have saved the show with the
performance dependent in a way upon them, and with their aid and
alliance relied upon every step of the way, is it any wonder that the
modern circus, marvel of efficiency that it is, looks upon the boys as
a necessary ingredient, to be treated fairly, honorably and truthfully,
and to be referred to, as one circusman talks to another, in terms of
affection? Indeed, it is not; for they’re our buddies!