Casey scratched his head thoughtfully.

"Dongolas?" he repeated. "I have heard th' word, Grevemeyer.
Wait a bit! 'Tis something about shoes. Sure! I remimber, now!
'Twas dongola shoes wan of me kids had, last winter, an' no good
they were, too. Dongolas is shoes, Grevemeyer--laced shoes --
dongolas is laced shoes."

The big mayor leaned his head far back and laughed long and
loud. He pounded on the bar with his fist, and slapped Toole on
the back.

"Laced shoes!" he cried, wiping his eyes, and then he became
suddenly serious. "'Twould not be shoes, Casey," he said gravely.
"Thim dongolas was ricomminded by th' landscape-gardener from New
Yorrk. 'Twould not be sinsible t' ricommind us put a pair of
laced shoes in th' park lake fer th' kids t' ride on."

"'Twould not seem so," said Toole, shaking his head wisely. "I
wisht me mind was like it always is. 'Tis a pity--"

"Stop!" cried Casey. "I have it! Thim was kid shoes. Thim
dongolas was kid shoes."

"So said, Casey," said Duo'an "For th' kid."

"No," said Casey, "of th' kid."

"Sure!" said Gravemeyer. So it is--the shoes of the child."