"He's the prince of press agents," answered Graemer easily, "he gets more publicity, favorable publicity, for anything he touches than any one I've ever watched work. Look what he did for the coal interests-- and look at that work of his in last fall's campaign--" "But that was politics--" protested the fat man. "He wouldn't call that being a press agent and I doubt if you could interest him in anything theatrical." "I can if I can get at him. Some one's bound to if I don't. It isn't only for 'The Juggler' that I want him, it's for all my things--what I'm going to offer him is something big--about the biggest end of the game--but I don't want to seem to go to him so I thought that if there was some casual way--if you should ask him to lunch with us--" "He probably wouldn't--of course he might--" the baritone ruminated, "Our fuss was a long time ago." He settled himself comfortably, he dearly loved to gossip. "He's a queer chap, Dud is. Always was. We used to sing in the same boy choir when we were kids. Little church over in Brooklyn. He was an angel terror, regulation boy sopran'. Into everything. Nearly drove the old choir master to drink. Was always being expelled. Our families both belonged to the church so Brownly always took us back after a row blew over. And carried us along while our voices were changing. When I first began doing baritone Dudley was singing all the tenor solos, had a peach of a voice, but he never did anything with it afterwards." "After what?" asked Edwina irritably. Her husband chuckled.