So the list of emotional causes for menagerie quarrels is nearly run. But there remain two things in which the line is rather closely drawn between the beast and the human. One of them is the irritation of annoying things and the other is just general cussedness.
Have you ever been in a crowd—a tremendous, jostling, packed crowd—where every one is talking at once, where somebody steps on your toes, where the air is stifling, and there doesn’t seem room to breathe? And have you ever been able to come out of one of those crowds with your temper actually whole? The same is true of animals; it is a rule with the circus that when the crowd reaches unbearable proportions, the side boards of the animal cages must be put in place and the brutes allowed to rest in darkness and quiet. The irritation of constant, thick-packed throngs before their cages gets on their nerves to such an extent that there is danger of a general fight throughout the whole menagerie! More, in several cases the beasts have been known to vent their rage upon the crowd itself, and there is the constant danger that some one will be pushed too close to the cages. This would mean the instant extension of a poisonous set of claws, a roar and a slashing blow which might mean death. So, while the crowd may protest, the circus knows best, and closes the cages.
Cussedness? There are just two things to remember. Never try to make friends with a rhinoceros or a camel. They are the two crabs of the animal universe; evil-tempered, selfish, mean and vengeful. Not even the animal attendant ever knows when a rhinoceros is going to turn upon him; there does not seem to be a single element of the big, armored beast’s nature that admits of friendliness.
And the camel! He is the supreme grouch of the menagerie. He’s never in good temper. He’s the bestial dyspeptic of the universe, and he carries a weapon in his mouth that is worse than the far-heralded perfume of the polecat. When a camel decides that he doesn’t like you, he gives you his cud, with an aim that would cause the crack-hitting tobacco chewers of the country store to curl up in envy. And once you’ve become the owner and possessor of that cud, splattered over your person, the best thing to do is to hurry to the nearest store and buy yourself a new suit of clothing!
But the cud isn’t the only weapon of the camel. His temper is such that he uses everything available,—teeth, head and hoofs! He can kick like a bay steer, butt like a goat, and bite like a steel vise. More, once he decides upon a dislike, he doesn’t stop until he has made use of his every item of armament. But there’s at least one redeeming feature; once it’s all out of his system, it’s out!
In the circus, when an animal man discovers that he is the recipient of dislike on the part of the camel, he doesn’t attempt to cajole or threaten. He merely plants a bale of hay upon his back, covers this with a piece of canvas, then, walking close to the camel, does or says something to irritate the beast. The result is a quick thrust of teeth or hoofs, whereupon the animal man dumps the “dummy” on the ground and quickly moves to the nearest hiding place. The camel doesn’t even notice him; its every vengeful thought is bent upon that thing on the ground. For fifteen minutes the “slaughter” continues, in which the beast kicks the canvas-covered hay, bites it, spits upon it, butts it and tramples it. After which the animal man can approach with impunity. To the camel, the old animal man is dead, killed during a personally conducted slaughter. This new person he treats as some one he never had seen before, and all malice is gone.
In which, perhaps, was the beginning of that old circus axiom:
“If you can’t beat ’em—jine ’em!”
CHAPTER IV
KIDS OF THE CAGES
THE circus was in the “cracker neck” district; out at the front gates, there was quarreling and bickering, as time after time the inner ticket takers stretched a hand toward some scrawny woman with a gangly boy in her arms and exclaimed: