And he does—backwards. In real life he's a theatrical manager and his name on the three-sheets is Peter J. Badtime, the Human Salary Spoiler.
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!