Fagan looked at the angry alderman. He looked at the dripping
goats.

"So I did, Mike," he said seriously. "We both of us did."

"An' did we!" cried Alderman Toole in mock surprise. "Is it
possible we thought t' put thim in th' wather whin we wanted thim
t' swim? It was in me mind that we tied thim to a tree an' played
ring-around-a-rosy with thim t' induce thim t' swim! Where's a
pencil? Where's a piece of paper?" he cried.

He jerked them from the hand of the messenger boy. The
afternoon was half worn away. Every minute was precious. He wrote
hastily and handed the message to the messenger boy.

"Fagan," he said, as the boy disappeared down the path at a
run, "raise up yer spirits an come an' give th' water goats some
more instructions in th' ginteel art of swimmin' in th' wather."

Fagan sighed and arose. He walked toward the dejected water
goats, and, taking the nearest one by the horns yanked it toward
the lake. The goat was too weak to do more than hold back feebly
and bleat its disapproval of another bath. The more lessons in
swimming it received the less it seemed to like to swim. It had
developed a positive hatred of swimming.

Dennis Toole received the second telegram with a savage grin.
He had expected it. He opened it with malicious slowness.