Horses Nine | Page 9

fined. At last the ring-master clapped his hands as sign that all was in
readiness. There was a momentary hush. Then a bugle sounded, the
flaps were thrown back and to the crashing accompaniment of the band,
the seemingly chaotic mass unfolded into a double line as the horses
broke into a sharp gallop around the freshly dug ring.
The first time Calico did the grand entry he felt as though he had been
sucked into a whirlpool and was being carried around by some
irresistible force. So dazed was he by the music, by the hum of human
voices and by the unfamiliar sights, that he forgot to rear and kick. He

could only prance and snort. He went forward because the rider of the
outside horse dragged him along by the bridle rein. Around and around
he circled until he lost all sense of direction, and when he was finally
shunted out through the dressing-tent flaps he was so dizzy he could
scarcely stand.
For a horse accustomed to shy at his own shadow this was heroic
treatment. But it was successful. In a month you could not have startled
Calico with a pound of dynamite. He would placidly munch his oats
within three feet of the spot where a stake-gang swung the heavy
sledges in staccato time. He cared no more for flapping canvas than for
the wagging of a mule's ears. As for noises, when one has associated
with a steam calliope one ceases to mind anything in that line. Old Ajax,
it was true, remained a terror to Calico for weeks, but in the end the
horse lost much of his dread for the ancient pachyderm, although he
never felt wholly comfortable while those wicked little eyes were
turned in his direction. Hereditary instincts, you know, die hard.
During those four months in which the Grand Occidental flitted over
the New England circuit from Kenduskeag, Me., to Bennington, Vt.,
there came upon Calico knowledge of many things. The farm-horse to
whom Bangor's market-square had been full of strange sights became,
in comparison with his former self, most sophisticated. He feared no
noise save that sinister whistle made by Broncho Bill's long lash. The
roaring sputter of gasoline flares was no more to him than the sound of
a running brook. He had learned that it was safe to kick a mere
canvasman when you felt like doing so, but that a real artist, such as a
tumbler or a trapeze man, was to be respected, and that the person of
the ring-master was most sacred. Also he acquired the knack of
sleeping at odd times, whenever opportunity offered and under any
conditions.
When he had grown thus wise, and when he had ceased to stumble over
guy-ropes and tent-stakes, Calico received promotion. He was put in as
outside horse of the leading pair in the grand entry. He was decorated
with a white-braided cord bridle with silk rosettes and he wore between
his ears a feather pompon. All this was very fine and grand, but there

was so little of it.
After it was all over, when the crowds had gone, the top lowered and
the stakes pulled, he was hitched to the leaden-wheeled band-wagon to
strain and tug at the traces all through the last weary half of the night.
But when fame has started your way, be you horse or man, you cannot
escape. Just before the season closed Calico was put on the sawdust.
This was the way of it.
A ninety-foot top, you know, carries neither extra people nor spare
horses. The performers must double up their acts. No one is exempt
save the autocratic high-bar folk, who own their own apparatus and
dictate contracts. So with the horses. The teams that pull the
pole-wagon, the chariots and the other wheeled things which a circus
needs, must also figure in the grand entry and in the hippodrome races.
Even the ring-horses have their share of road-work in a wagon show.
To the dappled grays used by Mlle. Zaretti, who was a top-liner on the
bills, fell the lot of pulling the ticket-wagon, this being the lightest
work. It was Mlle. Zaretti's habit to ride one at the afternoon show, the
other in the evening. So when the nigh gray developed a shoulder gall
on the day that the off one went lame there arose an emergency. Also
there ensued trouble for the driver of the ticket-wagon. First he was
tongue lashed by Mademoiselle, then he was fined a week's pay and
threatened with discharge by the manager. But when the increasing
wrath of the Champion Lady Equestrienne of America led her to
demand his instant and painful annihilation the worm turned. The
driver profanely declared that he knew his business. He had travelled