In theatrical circles they call him the impresario with the sawdust
koko and the split-second appetite.

Every time Pete poses as an angel for a troupe if you listen hard
you can hear the fuse blow out somewhere between Albany and
Schenectady.

From time to time over 2,197 actors have had to walk home on
account of Pete's cold feet.

Pete can develop a severe case of frosted pave pounders quicker
than any angel that ever had to dig for the oatmeal money.

Pete is an Ace all right--the Ace of Chumps!

His long suit when he isn't dishing out his autobiography is to
stand around a race track and bark at the bookmakers.

Pete is what I would call a plunger with the lid on.

He never bets more than two dollars on a race and even then he
keeps wishing he had it back.

Pete had me nailed to the corner of Broadway and 42d Street for
about ten minutes when fortunately Bunch Jefferson rolled up in his
new kerosene cart and I needed no second invitation to hop aboard
and give Pete the happy day-day!

"Whither away, Bunch?" I asked, as the Bubble began to do a Togo
through the fattest streets in the town.