hotels where lion-tamers put up, is
"Billy's" place, the great rendezvous of the country for circus folk,
and here any afternoon or evening, especially in the dull winter-time,
you may find heroes of the flying trapeze, bereft of show-ring
trappings, playing monotonous euchre with keepers of the cages, or
sitting in convivial and reminiscent groups that include everything from
the high-salaried star down to some humble tooter in the band at present
looking for a job. All kinds of acrobats come to "Billy's," all kinds of
animal men, everybody who has to do with a show, barring the owners. If
a Norwegian wrestler wants to get track of an Egyptian giant he goes to
"Billy's." If an elephant-trainer needs a new helper he goes to
"Billy's." It is at once a club, a haven, a post-office, and a general
intelligence bureau for members of this wandering and fascinating
profession.

It was my fortune recently to spend an evening at "Billy's," and I had
as companion a veteran circus man, able to explain things. After taking
in the externals, which were commonplace enough save for "big-top"
celebrities ranged along the walls in tiers of photographs, we sat us
down where a man in a blue shirt was telling how a lioness and three
cubs got out of a cage somewhere one afternoon just after the
performance. It seems one of the cubs had been playing with a loose
bolt, and the first thing anybody knew, there they were, all four of
them, skipping about free in the menagerie tent. The story detailed
various efforts to get the lioness back into her cage--prodding,
lassoing, shouting--and the total failure of these because she would
neither leave her cubs nor let them be taken from her.

Finally, the situation grew serious, for the evening performance was
coming on, and it was quite sure there would be no audience with an
uncaged lioness on the premises. So it became a matter of business in
this wise--a lioness worth a few hundred dollars against an audience
worth a couple of thousand. Word was sent to the head of the show, and
back came the order, "Kill her." In vain the keeper pleaded for one more
trial; he would risk a hand-to-hand struggle with hot irons. The head of
the show said, "No"; the lioness was desperate, and he wouldn't have his
men expose their lives. It was a case of "Shoot her, and do it quick."

Of course, that settled it; they did shoot her, and as the blue-shirted
man described the execution I was impressed by his tenderness