E-text prepared by Al Haines
BY HUGH McHUGH
1905
One day last week I was beating the ballast up Broadway when Pete,the Piker, declared himself in and began to chatter about cinchesat the track.
"Get the saw, Pete, and cut it," I said; "it's many a long daysince I've been a Patsy for the ponies. Once they stung me so hardthat for months my bank account looked like a porous plaster, so Itook the chloroform treatment and now you and your tips to thediscards, my boy, to the discards!"
Pete isn't really a native of Dopeville-on-the-Fence, but he likesto have people think he knows the racing game backwards.
And he does—backwards. In real life he's a theatrical manager andhis name on the three-sheets is Peter J. Badtime, the Human SalarySpoiler.
In theatrical circles they call him the impresario with the sawdustkoko and the split-second appetite.
Every time Pete poses as an angel for a troupe if you listen hardyou can hear the fuse blow out somewhere between Albany andSchenectady.
From time to time over 2,197 actors have had to walk home onaccount of Pete's cold feet.
Pete can develop a severe case of frosted pave pounders quickerthan 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 tostand 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 hekeeps wishing he had it back.
Pete had me nailed to the corner of Broadway and 42d Street forabout ten minutes when fortunately Bunch Jefferson rolled up in hisnew kerosene cart and I needed no second invitation to hop aboardand give Pete the happy day-day!
"Whither away, Bunch?" I asked, as the Bubble began to do a Togothrough the fattest streets in the town.
"I thought I'd run up and get the girls and take 'em for a spin outto the Belmont Park races," Bunch came back.
"Did you telephone them?" I inquired.
"No, but I told Alice this morning that if I got through at theoffice in time I'd take her to the track. We can call for Peacheson the way across town," was Bunch's program.
"Whisper, Bunch!" I suggested; "let's do the selfish gag for onceand leave the wives at home. I haven't bet a nickle on a skate fortwo years, but my little black man has the steering wheel to-dayand I'm going to fall off the sense wagon and break a five dollarbill."
"I'm with you, John," chuckled Bunch, and half an hour later wewere on our way | to the track, after having sent notes to our