Jolly Jack Jenkins exploded in a guffaw.
"I'm sorry I came," said Eileen, in vague distress.
"Fossy isn't," he retorted. "He was clean bowled over. In that Irish fox-hunting song all the gallery will be shouting 'Tally-ho!' Where did you pick it up?"
"I didn't pick it up, I made it up for the occasion."
"By Jove! I have to pay a guinea to a bloodsucking composer when I want a song. Oh, Fossy's spotted a winner this time."
"Why is he called Fossy?"
"I don't know. Nobody knows. I found the name, I pass it on."
"Perhaps it's a corruption of Foxy."
"There! I never thought of that! You are a—!"
The jolly chorister's mouth remained open. But the prophecy that had already issued from it came true in every detail.