"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,