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258 Yes, Mr. DeMilk He went to Art Concello, then a big spoke in the circus or- ganization, asked him to rig a bucket seat and pulley. "I want to see how things look up there/* DeMille said, pointing to the dizzy top of the huge tent. "A birthday caper, eh?" Concello grinned uneasily. It was August 9; DeMille's 68th birthday was the 12th. Concello dismissed the request, concluding it was made in jest. What DeMille was asking was to be sent up forty feet higher than the highest aerialist platform— The next day the citizens of Eau Claire, Wisconsin, witnessed an uncheduled act. They gazed up at a tiny figure in a swaying bucket seat, high against the blue ceiling of the Big Top. Con- cello kept a nervous watch below. "I was thinking of what might happen." The spectators cheered, and the circus per- formers themselves joined in—cheering a man with a flair for their special brand of razzle-dazzle, and the energy of a puma. DeMille came down, mopping his brow and grinning. "Let me give you a piece of advice," he told Concello. "It's 101 degrees up there and you need air in this tent. You can get it by opening the slit in the top of the tent." Each year the Ringling circus bought a Big Top. The next one purchased had an im- provement; perforations to admit air. His pace did not slacken even as the trip wore on. Only a few of us knew the extent of his fatigue when the day was over. On more than one night, at dinner, he slipped into a sort of semiconsciousness. His private secretary Gladys Rosson held up his head to keep it from striking the dishes. When he awoke he went right on with his meal as if nothing had happened. With five or six hours of sleep he was set to spring back into action. This was the first time the circus had been stalked by a man of DeMille's vigor. It was no stranger to stress, whether from man or the elements, which may account in some measure why the folks of the 3-ring circus, aerialists and roustabouts alike,