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.