On the Road

Hoop la! Springtime has come for the benefit of gentle Annie and the public at large. The winter snow has melted and the roads are knee deep with the mud. Those gentlemen who have been watching for “sleepers” all winter about the faro table, uniformed in a fur collar and a linen duster, group where the genial rays of the sun shine warmest and return thanks that they have survived and pray that they may continue to exist until straw hats are again generally worn.

Roll out the bill wagon and the paste wagon in the glory of their new paint. Load in the glorious posters, the wordy programs, handsome lithographs and illuminated cards. Supply the agents with abundance of contract blanks. Give the press agent his cuts and instruct him to make the columns of the newspapers as flowery as the hillsides in the coming May and as gorgeous as the tinted heavens of an autumnal sunset. Fit the new paste brushes to their handles. Lay in a stock of starch and tacks and don’t charge the manager a cent of profit thereon. Fetch out the horses and hitch up. I am anxious to see the first stand of bills for the season posted. Slap on the paste with a will. Blister your hands. All together, boys, “This is the best show on the road and we are the bosses in the business.”

Opposition stand aside and clear the track. The grandest combination of the universe is on wheels. Never was the little old man who directs the posting more in his element [as] he sits upon his bill wagon shouting his orders like a colonel of militia in a sham fight. How the paste flies over the heads of the men, into the faces of the on-lookers. You never saw the Splinter? Why, he is a sight worth seeing. He is built on the plan of a clothespin and is as graceful as a turkey walking on a hot gridiron. His arms flap in the spring gale and he throws his brush with the skill of a veteran. What a Bardolph he would make. It would require no further reddening of the nose; the color there is permanent. Such a fellow as he would have shown well in the train of the fat and lying knight. (32)

This is the first season for Salts of Syracuse; and at the outset he pokes the handle of his brush into the stomach of Friday (much to the discomfiture of that individual), who says Nova Scotia, the province of his birth, is a very fine country - when it don’t rain. Jersey, the ostler, who is now commencing his travels, conveys the impression to the small boys about the paste wagon that he is an “old showman” and wonders if the young lady who is viewing the picture of Mlle. Rosina on horseback does not imagine that he is the manager. He discovers during the evening that the mysterious maiden is a dishwasher at the hotel; and from the day he leaves Newark, New Jersey, until he terminates his engagement at Calais, Maine, the revenue of the postal department is increased and the national debt materially lessened by the bulk of their correspondence.

Tintype portraits in sixteen distinct positions are exchanged and midnight oil consumed in the indicting of love missives. John Garth, the program juggler, gives the workers the value of his experience and advice. The contracting agent is badgering a stupid Dutchman who deals in lager and bologna, speaks but little English and that very much mixed. The director of publications is annoying the managing editor. In short, the advance corps are all at work once more “on the road.”

Wait until the day’s work is finished and set yourself down with the boys in the comfortable warmth given out by the stove in the hotel office. The contractor is looking over the contracts he has made during the day. The man of the pen is thinking up the copy for a three-sheet poster. The paste brigade are indulging in reminiscences. The little old man is full of them and stretches the truth to an alarming extent. Jersey tells the most inane of stories, to the disgust of Salts. Friday and John Garth learnedly discuss the proper method of programming a show. And the Splinter at length secures the attention of all by relating his travels with Forepaugh, O’Brien, and Haight & Wooten. As a preliminary, he ties his long legs in a knot and proceeds by furnishing a recipe to keep paste from spoiling.

“You don’t know Steve Young, do you?” said the Splinter. “He always travels with the show that Charlie Castle goes with. Bob Armstrong, who used to be ahead of J. M. French, told me this story. Last time I saw Bob he was a clerk in a hotel up in Rutland, Vermont. Dr. Jones, the writer, told me so. The doctor said that Steve’s memory was not very good. So one day, that he mightn’t forget the name of the next stand, he writ it on the foot board of the bill wagon with a piece of chalk. Ridin’ over the country it got worn off, you know, by the rubbing of his feet; and when Steve came to a crossroads and wanted to ask the right road to take, he couldn’t make out his memorandum and he sat there, scratching his head and trying to think of the name.

“After a minute or two he gave it up and sung out to a man who was workin’ in the field close by.

“‘I say, mister, can you tell me the name of a town near here which sounds sunthing like peck?’

“In course the farmer didn’t know what peck meant, for he had never traveled with a show; but he commenced to name the towns and, by-me-by, sez he:

“‘Eaton.’

“‘That’s so,’ says Steve.‘Eating, Eaton, Eating, that’s it! Get up.’ And away he went before the countryman had half finished telling him the way.”

Early to bed, for the paste brigade must be on the road before daylight. The stands are all for one day and there is no time to be lost.

“Breakfast at four, landlord. Good night, good night.”

The trouble has not yet commenced. Wait until opposing companies strike our route, then the paper will fly. The little old man puts on his overalls and slings paste as if his existence were at stake; the contractor “jumps ahead” and secures billboards and posting places; the writer dips his pen in wormwood and the battle rages. Telegrams from the managerial commander-in-chief in the rear flash along the lines. The action has become general, the armor is buckled on and the cry is “War!”

The strength of the road stock is tested to the utmost, as the drives are long and man and horse begin to wear under the strain. Rains set in and the roads become almost impassable. The agents hunt lots and licenses wading in the slush. The newspaper man tells no more funny stories to local editors but is uglier and bitterer than his writings. Jersey wishes himself in Newark once more and loses his much needed rest in writing letters to the fair dishwasher. Friday is the only happy man in the crowd; the weeping heavens and the muddy streets remind him so much of the land of Longfellow’s "Evangeline.”

A mob of boys run howling after the two teams that are dragged through the street at a furious rate, considering the depth of the mud. The enemy have arrived. The paste brigade of the other show is here. “Now look out for a clash and a quarrel,” you say? No, there is where you make a mistake. The representatives of the rival circuses greet each other in the most cordial manner, with many a hearty clasp of the hand and inquiry as to each other’s health and prosperity. In an incredible short space of time the newcomers are at work. The ringing echo of the carpenter’s hammer tells of the rising of the mammoth billboards. Like chivalrous soldiers, they fight for the flag of their employer, leaving no duty undone that shall tend to bring him success. But when the day’s labors are over they will gather about the stove in the hotel office and revive pleasant recollections of the past and discuss the merits of their respective shows.

In the fall of the year you will find them resplendent with new suits, laden with jewelry and brilliant with diamonds, their pockets distorted with immense wads of small notes, finding a welcome wherever they go - as long as the money lasts. There may be a perceptible difference in the texture of the cloth which the Splinter wears and the stunning pin on his breast may be an “Alaska,” but what of that? He feels just as big in his new suit as any man who has been ON THE ROAD.

Footnotes

32. This is, of course, a reference to Shakespeare’s gargantuan character of Falstaff and his henchman.


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William L. Slout and Circus Historical Society, Inc.