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Fossy proved to be a gentleman named Josephs, who in a tiny triangular room near the stage of the Half-and-Half listened critically to her comic singing, shook his head and said he would let her know. Eileen left the room with leaden heart and feet. "Wait for me a moment, please," Jolly Jack Jenkins called after her, and she hung about timidly, jostled by dirty attendants and painted performers.
She signed an agreement at three guineas a week for three years, to perform only at the Half-and-Half. Fossy saw far. Eileen did not. She jumped for joy when she got beyond eyeshot. She felt herself jumping out of the governess-life. Second thoughts and soberer footsteps brought doubt. She had intended telling Mrs.
"Well, we had no sooner turned to go, than the French people sot up a cheer that made all ring again; and they sung out, "La Fossy Your," "La Fossy Your," and shouted it agin and agin ever so loud. "'What's that? sais Steve. "Well, I didn't know, for I never heerd the word afore; but it don't do to say you don't know, it lowers you in the eyes of other folks.
The bass chorister suddenly took on an air of Arabian nights. At this rate she could buy back the family castle. Her struggling brothers how they would bless their magician sister Mick should have a London practice, Miles a partnership in an engineering firm. "You come with me and see Fossy," continued Jolly Jack Jenkins. Eileen declined with thanks.
"Might I present two friends of mine? They want so much to know you." "You know I never see anybody, and that I have to hurry off." "Then, I was to give you this bouquet." He handed in a costly floral mass. Amid it lay a card, "Colonel Doherty." She crumpled his letter more viciously. "Tell them I can give them ten minutes only. Oh, Fossy, it's an amusing Show, isn't it?"
"So Steve turns and takes off his hat, and makes them a low bow, and they larfs wus than ever, and calls out again, "La Fossy Your," "La Fossy Your." He was kinder ryled, was the Elder. His honey had begun to farment, and smell vinegery. 'May be, next Christmas, sais he, 'you won't larf so loud, when you find the mare is dead.
"It was a rattling good show," said Fossy, half puzzled. "Come in, boys." Entered the Anglo-Indian twain with shining faces and shirt-fronts, cheroots politely lowered. "Oh, smoke away, gentlemen," cried Nelly O'Neill, facing them in all the dazzle of her flesh and the crudity of her stage-paint, and her over-lustrous eyes, "don't mind me. Which of you is the Colonel?"
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."
"O my darling, I shall sit up all night, thinking of you, re-reading all your dear letters, recalling our past, picturing our future. In short, as old Landor puts it: "'A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee." She crumpled the paper in her hand. There was a knock at the door; Fossy poked his head in. He had risen in the world of Halls, even as Nelly O'Neill.
"I hope you didn't let him misunderstand " "You asked me not to let him know too much. Fossy has to do so much with queer folk " "Yes, I saw he had to warn them against improper songs." 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.
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