The “rooster man” is one of the novelties of the show and of the dressing-room. He is an Englishman who costumes himself like a monstrous fighting cock, gaffed and ready for the fray, and astonishes the audience with an exhibition in which an audacious little natural game cock participates. It concludes with a battle between the pseudo and the genuine bird in which the one engages eagerly and is impressed with an exultant, strutting conviction of victory when its huge antagonist flops fluttering to the ground. The diversion is as entertaining as any in the sawdust precincts and to the show persons the most remarkable for patience in training and endurance in execution. How little the onlookers imagine that after the act the human rooster frequently drops in a state of collapse and exhaustion! The feathers which envelop him are of necessity fastened to stiff and smothering supports, and their encumbering weight on a hot day is tremendous. This is one of the secrets of the arena which probably no one who has witnessed the unique performance ever divined. For intrepid bravery and wild exploits I doubt if the equal of the trick bicyclist can be found. In the parade, the chances of injury he gleefully assumes fill the sightseer with horror and dread. Under the canvas the greater the risk the more enjoyment it accords him. He rides, in one exhibition, down an ordinary ladder which stretches to the dome of the tent. Down the smooth rungs he dashes, like a spectral flash, and his comrades wonder what the final end will be. Nothing can prevent the feat. When wet weather makes other performers hesitate or they are directed not to try their acts, he mounts merrily to his perch and trusts to luck and skill. Water drips from the apparatus and his mad flight seems impossible of safe accomplishment. He emerges unscathed. He is, too, the dare-devil of the “cycle whirl,” a cup-shaped apparatus made of wooden slats. He has four companions, but the neck-breaking scorching is delegated to him. Around the inclined track he rushes, with hands spread out and arms upraised, the contrivance shivering and rattling. Faster and yet faster he whizzes until he no longer looks like a man on a bicycle; he is a blurred line drawn around the track. Within an inch of the rim and disaster, down the drop to the very edge of the floor he rumbles with no power of guidance over his machine save his wonderful balance, and spectators catch their breath. Then a wild jump and he is bowing and smiling in the centre of the cup.