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?”      

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