At the railroad yards the blazing torches show a picturesque, animated spectacle. Here again orderly precision prevails. The wagons are drawn on to the cars by horses and a block and tackle, while a man guides the course of the vehicle by its pole as it is passed to the far end of the car. There is a “skid” or inclined plane at the end of the first car, and an iron plate bridges the space between the other cars, making a continuous platform. Each wagon has its number and allotted place again, and is placed to the best advantage for convenience of unloading and for utilizing space. A wrongly-packed vehicle would cause endless confusion and delay. It is seldom later than one o’clock when the three sections are on the move. Rain and mud annoy and retard, sometimes, but extra efforts nullify, in a great measure, the effect of their presence. Working-man and beast are slumbering deeply when the engines couple for the journey, and only the watch-men, patrolling the long stretches of cars, give sign of life and wakefulness. At one end of the line of Pullman sleepers, where are placed the performers and members of the business staff, is the most ornate piece of rolling stock, the Thelma, named for the general manager’s daughter, a tot who is eagerly awaiting her father’s winter cessation from toil. Here is a queer little lunch room where gather each evening, for a bite, after the show, the men and boys of the circus. An hour or two passes with much laughter and jollity and with many innocent jokes, intermingled with serious discussion. Ice-cream is the popular dish, and plateful after plateful vanishes down dusty throats. The frozen mixture is a nightly requisite of the body-weary circus colony. It is to them what the night cap of liquor represents to the toper. No headache or clouded brain or dulled body is its concomitant, only health-giving properties. Strong drink is tabooed in the Thelma, as is its fate elsewhere with the circus, and no demand for its presence has ever been manifested. The scene is one the most approved moralist would endorse. [Illustration: PERFORMERS AT THEIR MIDDAY MEAL.] Hassan Ali, the giant of the side-show, is the most unwelcome visitor. Room is at a premium, and he occupies about double space. Somebody is always stepping on his protruding feet, to his intense disgust, but to the ill-concealed amusement of the others. There is a general feeling of impending disaster when Hassan is seen stooping into the room. If his huge bulk doesn’t shatter a chair, his awkward movements seldom fail to break a dish, crush a by-stander or scatter food indiscriminately. Colonel Seely, the privilege man, grumbles vigorously, and none of us are at ease until the giant has retired to bed and the nightly ordeal is over. Through it all Hassan never loses his temper or composure. His good nature knows no bounds.