were taken to the park and turned over to their official keeper.
At eleven o'clock that morning Alderman Toole was leaning
against Casey's bar, confidentially pouring into his ear the
story of how the dongolas had given their captors a world of
trouble, swimming violently to the far reaches of Lake Geneva and
hiding among the bulrushes and reeds, when the swinging door of
the saloon was banged open and Tim Fagan rushed in. He was mad.
He was very mad, but he was a great deal wetter than mad. He
looked as if he had been soaked in water over night, and not
wrung out in the morning.

"Mike!" he whispered hoarsely, grasping the little alderman by
the arm. "I want ye! I want ye down at th' park."

A chill of fear passed over Alderman Toole. He turned his face
to Fagan and laid his hand on his shoulder.

"Tim," he demanded, "has annything happened t' th' dongolas?"

"Is annything happened t' th' dongolas!" exclaimed Fagan
sarcastically. "Is annything wrong with thim water goats? Oh, no,
Toole! Nawthin' has gone wrong with thim! Only they won't go into
th' wather, Mike! Is annything gone wrong with thim, did ye say?
Nawthin'! They be in good health, but they are not crazy t' be
swimmin'. Th' way they do not hanker t' dash into th' water is
marvellous, Mike. No water for thim!"

"Hist!" said Toole uneasily, glancing around to see that no one
but Casey was in hearing. "Mebby ye have not started thim right,
Tim."