In fact, thieving by elephants is a rather common occurrence. The worst of it is that they cannot be punished for it. In spite of all the flub-dub that goes the rounds about the cruelties that are practiced upon animals, it is next to impossible to punish an elephant, and then only for some major offense, such as a deliberate attempt at murder. With the result that minor infractions can be accompanied by little more than a scolding, which the elephant accepts in much the manner of a small boy: he appears dreadfully downcast, cries and trumpets, goes to his knees as though to promise that it never will happen again and then, at the first opportunity, proceeds to do as he pleases.
A circus with which I once was connected suddenly hired two private detectives. “Prowlers” had fastened themselves upon the show, evidently riding the flat cars at night, and then, when the long circus train was asleep, raiding the sleeping cars, stealing everything from pictures to pocketbooks. In fact, from the indications, the thieves were plain kleptomaniacs; it seemed to make little difference what they took, just so they had something to show for their work of the night.
For a full week the detectives labored diligently, searching the cars, investigating the personnel of the men who rode the flats at night, even looking into the “possum bellies” beneath the coaches. Nothing was discovered. The thieves worked like wraiths; doors were locked, but they stole just the same. Then one morning, just before dawn, as the two sections lay beside each other in the railroad yards, a performer and his wife suddenly awakened with the knowledge that their covering had been yanked from them and whisked through the open window!
The method of the thieves at last had been discovered. The nights were hot, the windows of the coaches were open. Evidently the robber or robbers worked with a stepladder, climbing up beside the windows and then pilfering the berths through the open windows. But when lights had been obtained, the car porter aroused, and the performers dressed to proceed with an outside investigation, the theories suffered a setback. The bull car was opposite that coach. Whereupon, the elephant superintendent decided upon a search.
Carefully concealed in the straw bedding of the big car, the loot was found: a silver-backed hair-brush, three pocketbooks containing various amounts of money, two mirrors, a corset, one fringed bed cover which evidently had just been hidden, the remains of a man’s straw hat, fifteen photographs purloined from the decorations of the various berths, a Titian-hued “switch,” a Palm Beach coat, the remains of a bag of candy, four pencils, one shoe and a collar button! After that, the two sections were spotted at different places and the mysterious robberies ceased. That is, as far as the performers were concerned. But the bull cars remained always a source of revenue; principally the tops of milk cans, snatched from trucks as the circus trains passed through the various stations.
This is humorous enough for the outsider, but sad indeed for the circus man. From long years of tradition, there still lurks the belief that the showman is a natural thief, and on circus day the first intimation of a missing article leads to suspicion against the nearest person who happens to be with the “opery.” One day we were pulling in late and proceeding slowly that the trains might be “spotted” without the necessity of switching. Repairs were being made on the road, and beside the through tracks was a switch filled with hand-cars belonging to the railroad workmen, upon which they had left their coats and dinner buckets. No sooner had the train stopped than a red-necked section foreman appeared with the town constable and the announcement that some circus man, the dir-rty blaggard, had stolen four dinner pails from the hand-cars as the circus train passed! The show denied the assertion. The foreman reiterated it. A crowd began to gather, and there loomed in the offing the possibility of one of those things which a circus fears simply because it knows its own strength—a “Hey Rube,” or general fight. Then, just when things seemed to be getting beyond control, the circus “fixer” began to work on a system of deduction.
If there is anything which a circus man doesn’t have to bother about, it is something to eat. The chief means by which a circus manages to exist without paying high salaries is through providing good food and plenty of it. Therefore, it was rather silly to believe that circus men should steal cold luncheons when there was hot food in the offing. There was left one real possibility and the “fixer” led the way to the elephant cars. There were the four buckets, hidden in the straw, their contents untouched! All of which turned out, incidentally, to the show’s advantage. That night, the section hands brought all their friends to the show to see the ellyphants that had stolen the dinner buckets!
They’re a constant round of mischief, those elephants. Something’s always happening. The show train was on the down-grade one morning, late, and fighting to make up time so that it might at least stand a chance of giving a performance that afternoon. Suddenly the emergencies clamped hard, performers scattered around the sleeping cars, animals howled, cages slipped from their fastenings and began to wobble about the flat cars as the air pressure was exerted its utmost to halt the progress of the speeding section. The conductor, nonplused, scrambled along the flats, reaching the first one just as the train halted.
“What’re you stopping for?” he shouted to the engineer.
“Ask yourself the same question!” came the retort. “You flagged me down.”