"Sure!" agreed the big mayor. He toyed with his glass a moment.
"Mike," he said suddenly, "what th' divil is a dongola, anyhow?"
Mike Toole was just raising his glass to his lips with the
movements of one accustomed to hold conversation with the mayor.
His left hand rested on his hip, with his arm akimbo, and his hat
was tipped carelessly to the back of his head. The hand raising
his glass stopped short where it was when he heard the mayor's
question. He frowned at the glass--scowled at it angrily.
"A dongola, Dugan"--he said slowly, and stopped. "A dongola"--
he repeated. "A dongola--did ye ask me what a dongola might be,
Dugan?"
The big mayor nodded, and Grevemeyer leaned forward to catch
the answer. Casey, too, leaned on his bar and listened. Alderman
Toole raised his glass to his lips and filled his mouth with the
liquor. Instantly he dashed the glass furiously to the floor. He
jerked off his hat and cast it into a far corner and pulled off
his coat, throwing it after his hat. He was climbing on to the
bar when the big mayor and Grevemeyer laid their hands on the
little man and held him tightly.
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