Pa struck on his head against a wagon wheel and his brass helmet was driven down over his face, so when he yelled to be pulled out of the helmet his voice sounded like a coon song, coming from a phonograph.  It was the closest call from death pa ever had, ’cause they had to cut the helmet with a can opener to let pa out, like you open a can of lobsters.  When they got the helmet opened so pa could come out, he looked just like a boiled lobster, and when the chief owner of the circus came up on a run, and asked if pa was dead, pa said:  “Not much, Mary Ann; did I win?” and the manager said it was a pity they ever opened that helmet and let pa out.  The man told pa he won in a walk, but the chief of police of Scranton was going to arrest pa for exceeding the speed limit.

[Illustration:  Pa Struck on His Head Against a Wagon Wheel.]

They took pa to the dressing-room on a piece of board, and when the woman driver saw him, she got an ax, and wanted to cleave him from head to foot, but the bearded woman stepped in front of her and said:  “Not on your life,” and she shielded pa from death with her manly form, which pa says he shall never forget.  Pa’s old friends in Scranton gave him a banquet that night, but pa couldn’t eat anything, cause the rim of the brass helmet cut a gash in his Adam’s apple.

After the chariot race the managers concluded they wouldn’t let pa have any position of importance again very soon, and I made up my mind you wouldn’t ever catch me in any game that pa was in; but in the circus business you can never tell what is going to happen from one day to another.

On the train on the way to Wilkes Barre there was a hot box on one of the sleepers, and the car was side-tracked all night.

When we arrived at the town about 40 wagon drivers that were in the car did not show up, and they had to press everybody that could drive a team into the service to haul the stuff to the lot, and pa drove four horses so well with a load of tent poles that the manager complimented pa, and that gave pa the big head.  When the parade was all ready to start through town, and the drivers had not arrived, the manager asked pa if he thought he could drive the ten gray horses on the band wagon, to lead the procession, and pa said driving ten horses was his best hold, and he got up on the driver’s seat, and called me to get up with him, and I hate a boy that will disobey a parent, so I climbed up and began to jolly the band about the chariot race, and I told them pa wouldn’t do a thing to them this time.

The manager of the show always rides ahead of the parade, with the chief of police of the town, and the band horses follow him, so it is easy enough to drive ten horses, cause all you have to do it to hold on to the 20 lines, and look savage at the crowd on the sidewalks, and the horses go right along, and the people think the driver is a wonder.  So when the manager started in his buggy pa pulled up on all the lines he could hold on to, which filled his lap, and made him look like a harness maker, and he yelled:  “Ye-up,” and the procession moved, and the ten teams pa was driving went along all right, and pa looked as though he owned the show and the town.