The little alderman from the Fourth Ward walked silently by the
Keeper's side. His head was downcast and his hands were clasped
beneath the tails of his coat. Suddenly he looked Fagan full in
the face.

"'Twas our fault, Fagan," he said. "'Twas all our fault. If we
didn't know thim dongolas was wather-proof we should have
varnished thim before we put thim in th' lake t' soak. I don't
blame you, Fagan, for ye did not know anny better, but I blame
mesilf. For I call t' mind now that me father always varnished
th' dongolas before he soaked thim overnight. 'Take no chances,
Mike,' he used t' say t' me, 'always varnish thim firrst. Some of
thim is rubbery an' will not soak up wather, but some is spongy,
an' 'tis best t' varnish one an' all of thim."'

"Think of that now!" exclaimed Fagan with admiration. "Sure,
but this natural history is a wonderful science, Toole! To think
that thim animals was th' spongyhided dongola water goats of
foreign lands, an' used t' bein' varnished before each an' every
bath! An' t' me they looked no different from th' goats of me
byehood! I was never cut out for a goat keeper, Mike. An' me job
on th' dump-cart is gone, too. 'Twill be hard times for Fagan."

"'Twill be hard times for Toole, too," said the little
alderman, and they walked on without speaking until Fagan reached
his gate.

"Well, anny how," he said with cheerful philosophy, "'tis
better t' be us than to be thim dongola water goats--dead or