Summary

Wells Hawks Red Wagon Stories; or, Tales Told Under the Tent

The man who sold the red paste-boards at the ticket wagon always dressed better than the man who owned the circus. He ran largely to striped vests and wore shirts that were of the sassiest shade of pink. Like the Candy Butcher, he never wore his coat when he was working, but the vest and the trousers made him a swell enough picture. The rest of the outfit regarded him with the same awe that fills the spirit of a man earning twelve dollars a week who accidentally runs into J. Pierpont Morgan.
Source: Gutenberg

Wells Hawks Red Wagon Stories; or, Tales Told Under the Tent

We have not one—three—five—or six of these specimens of the animal kingdom, but a whole herd of them—a herd of them—a herd of reindeer from the land of the midnight sun, where there is but one night, one day—reindeers, my friends, from the icy mountains of far away Norway the greatest group ever exhibited in any colossal enterprise that has ever been organized by mortal man.
Source: Gutenberg

Wells Hawks Red Wagon Stories; or, Tales Told Under the Tent

The Boss Canvasman’s pants were ancient history, and his vest was always open. He wore one of those motorman watches, with a shoestring for a chain. He never looked at the watch except at night, for when it was daytime he could pull off the hour on the second by the [39] slant of the shadows across the big “top.” The Boss never wore a collar. On Sunday he would put a gold button in the shirt band, lean disconsolately against the tongue of the pole wagon, and feel uncomfortable because he was dressed up.
There was no coin and jewel flash about the Boss Canvasman.
Source: Gutenberg

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