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The Water Goats
by
Dennis Toole received the second telegram with a savage grin. He had expected it. He opened it with malicious slowness.
“Dennis Toole, Franklin Zoo,” he read. “Where do you think I put them to make them swim? They won’t swim in the lake. It won’t do no good to us for them to swim on dry land. No fooling, now, how do you make them dongolas swim? Answer quick.
“Michael Toole.”
He did not have to study out his reply, for he had been considering it ever since he had sent the other telegram. He took a blank from the boy and wrote the answer. The sun was setting when the Jeffersonville messenger delivered it to Alderman Toole.
“Mike Toole, Jeffersonville,” it said. “Quit fooling, yourself. Don’t you know young dongolas are always water-shy at first? Tie them in the lake and let them soak, and they will learn to swim fast enough. If I didn’t know any more about dongolas than you do I would keep clear of them. Dennis Toole.”
“Listen to that now,” said Alderman Toole, a smile spreading over his face. “An’ who ever said I knew annything about water goats, anny how? Th’ natural history of th’ water goat is not wan of the things usually considered part of th’ iducation of th’ alderman from th’ Fourth Ward, Fagan, but ’tis surprised I am that ye did not know th’ goat is like th’ soup bean, an’ has t’ be soaked before usin’. Th’ Keeper of th’ Water Goat should know th’ habits of th’ animal, Fagan. Why did ye not put thim in to soak in th’ first place? I am surprised at ye!”
“It escaped me mind,” said Fagan. “I was thinkin’ these was broke t’ swimmin’ an’ did not need t’ be soaked. I wonder how long they should be soaked, Mike?”
“‘Twill do no harrm t’ soak thim over night, anny how,” said Toole. “Over night is th’ usual soak given t’ th’ soup-bean an’ th’ salt mackerel, t’ say nawthin’ of th’ codfish an’ others of th’ water-goat family. Let th’ water goats soak over night, Fagan, an by mornin’ they will be ready t’ swim like a trout. We will anchor thim in th’ lake, Fagan–an’ we will say nawthin’ t’ Dugan. ‘Twould be a blow t’ Dugan was he t’ learn th’ dongolas provided fer th’ park was young an’ wather-shy.”
They anchored the water goats firmly in the lake, and left them there to overcome their shyness, which seemed, as Fagan and Toole left them, to be as great as ever. The goats gazed sadly, and bleated longingly, after the two men as they disappeared in the dusk, and when the men had passed entirely out of sight, the goats looked at each other and complained bitterly.
Alderman Toole thoughtfully changed his wet clothes for dry ones before he went to Casey’s that evening, for he thought Dugan might be there, and he was. He was there when Toole arrived, and his brow was black. He had had a bad day of it. Everything had gone wrong with him and his affairs. A large lump of his adherents had sloughed off from his party and had affiliated with his opponents, and the evening opposition paper had come out with a red-hot article condemning the administration for reckless extravagance. It had especially condemned Dugan for burdening the city with new bonds to create an unneeded park, and the whole thing had ended with a screech of ironic laughter over the–so the editor called it–fitting capstone of the whole business, the purchase of two dongola goats at perfectly extravagant prices.
“Mike,” said the big mayor severely, when the little alderman had offered his greetings, “there is the divil an’ all t’ pay about thim dongolas. Th’ News is full of thim. ‘Twill be th’ ind of us all if they do not pan out well. Have ye tried thim in th’ water yet?”