"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?"