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“Sure!” exclaimed the little alderman with a heartiness he did not feel. “What has me an’ Fagan been doin’ all day but tryin’ thim? Have no fear of th’ wather goats, Dugan.”

“Do they swim well, Mike?” asked the big mayor kindly, but with a weary heaviness he did not try to conceal.

“Swim!” exclaimed Toole. “Did ye say swim, Dugan? Swim is no name for th’ way they rip thro’ the wather! ‘Twas marvellous t’ see thim. Ah, thim dongolas is wonderful animals! Do ye think we could persuade thim t’ come out whin we wanted t’ come home? Not thim, Dugan! ‘Twas all me an’ Fagan could do t’ pull thim out by main force, an’ th’ minute we let go of thim, back they wint into th’ wather. ‘Twas pitiful t’ hear th’ way they bleated t’ be let back into th’ wather agin, Dugan, so we let thim stay in for th’ night.”

“Ye did not let thim loose in th’ lake, Mike?” exclaimed the big mayor. “Ye did not let thim be so they could git away?”

“No,” said Toole. “No! They’ll not git away, Dugan. We anchored thim fast.”

“Ye done good, Mike,” said the big mayor.

The next morning Keeper of the Water Goats Fagan was down sufficiently early to drag the bodies of the goats out of the lake long before even the first citizen was admitted to the park. Alone, and hastily he hid them in the little tool house, and locked the door on them. Then he went to find Alderman Toole. He found him in the mayor’s office, and beckoned him to one side. In hot, quick accents he told him the untimely fate of the dongola water goats, and the mayor–with an eye for everything on that important day–saw the red face of Alderman Toole grow longer and redder; saw the look of pain and horror that overspread it. A chilling fear gripped his own heart.

“Mike,” he said. “What’s th’ matter with th’ dongolas?”

It was Fagan who spoke, while the little alderman from the Fourth Ward stood bereft of speech in this awful moment.

“Dugan,” he said, “I have not had much ixperience with th’ dongola wather goat, an’ th’ ways an’ habits of thim is strange t’ me, but if I was t’ say what I think, I would say they was over-soaked.”

“Over-soaked, Fagan?” said the mayor crossly. “Talk sense, will ye?”

“Sure!” said Fagan. “An’ over-soaked is what I say. Thim water goats has all th’ looks of bein’ soaked too long. I would not say positive, Yer Honour, but that is th’ looks of thim. If me own mother was t’ ask me I would say th’ same, Dugan. ‘Soakin’ too long done it,’ is what I would say.”

“You are a fool, Fagan!” exclaimed the big mayor.

“Well,” said Fagan mildly, “I have not had much ixperience in soakin’ dongolas, if ye mean that, Dugan. I do not set up t’ be an expert dongola soaker. I do not know th’ rules t’ go by. Some may like thim soaked long an’ some may like thim soaked not so long, but if I was to say, I would say thim two dongolas at th’ park has been soaked a dang sight too long. Th’ swim has been soaked clean out of thim.”

“Are they sick?” asked the big mayor. “What is th’ matter with thim?”

“They do look sick,” agreed Fagan, breaking the bad news gently. “I should say they look mighty sick, Dugan. If they looked anny sicker, I would be afther lookin’ for a place t’ bury thim in. An’ I am lookin’ for th’ place now.”

As the truth dawned on the mind of the big mayor, he lost his firm look and sank into a chair. This was the last brick pulled from under his structure of hopes. His head sank upon his breast and for many minutes he was silent, while his aides stood abashed and ill at ease. At last he raised his head and stared at Toole, more in sorrow than in resentfulness.