Each driver has his team of two, four, six, eight, or ten horses and he makes two trips to the exhibition ground. Each wagon has its number, and each day and night the same man and beasts have it in charge. The drivers seem to have an intuitive knowledge of topography. Often the lot is several miles distant from the place of arrival and unloading, but these men of the reins are never confused as to locality or direction. They make the most complicated journeys without hesitation or mistake, seldom resorting to interrogating the native residents. Roads curve and wind in a manner most bewildering, but they keep steadily toward the scene of exhibition. These rides through pretty suburban streets in the gray light of the morning are often very delightful and invigorating. Generally, sidewalks are lined and porches packed with people eager to get their first glance of the circus, though its beauty and grandeur are hid. Frequently the trains are shifted during the day, and night, with its blackness, finds the circus cars awaiting their loads in an entirely different section of the town. The drivers are informed of the change, but it is left to their keen perceptions to make the trip by the shortest route. This is no simple accomplishment, in the gloom of streets and with landmarks entirely unfamiliar, but it is performed without blunder or inaccuracy. The number of accidents to man and beast in these nocturnal wanderings is remarkably insignificant, due, in a great measure, to the skill of the reinsmen and their coolness in emergencies. Sometimes steep hills, rough roads, or sharp corners bring disaster, but not frequently. The wagons progress to their destination behind four-, six-, eight-, and ten-horse teams as smoothly, safely, and swiftly as the local doctor goes his rounds. The money wagon is early off the train and on its way to the lot. Inside is the assistant treasurer of the show, who has been shuffled about continually during the time allotted to slumber, but whom long service has inured to the racking. He is there to guard that part of the coin and bills which has not been expressed to New York. There is not an instance on record of a successful attempt to loot the money wagon of a circus, although many showmen wonder that the apparently inviting opportunity offered has not been seized. This immunity, I suppose, rests on the basis of knowledge that there are no more courageous, determined fighters than circus employees. For daring, hardihood, and bodily prowess they have no superiors. The boldest highwayman may, well hesitate before he takes liberties with the money wagon. He would find a man inside ready and experienced in gun play, and a party of circus workmen whose duty it is to be prepared for invaders would appear like men from the ground. If the marauder escaped with his life, much less the plunder he sought, the prediction often made would be inexact.