"Ye have done good, Mike," said the mayor. "Ye have done good!
But ain't they mebby a bit off their feed--or something?"
"Off their feed!" said Toole. "An' who wouldn't be, poor
things? Mind ye, Dugan, thim is not common goats--thim is
dongolas--an' used to bein' in th' wather con-continuous from
mornin' till night. 'Tis sufferin' for a swim they be, poor
animals. Wance let thim git in th' lake an' ye will see th'
difference, Dugan. 'Twill make all th' difference in th' worrld
t' thim. 'Tis dyin' for a swim they are."
"Sure!" said the Keeper of the Water Goats. "Ye have done good,
Mike," said the mayor again. "Thim dongolas will be a big
surprise for th' people."
They were. They surprised the Keeper of the Goats first of all.
The day before the park was to be opened to the public the goats
were taken to the park and turned over to their official keeper.
At eleven o'clock that morning Alderman Toole was leaning
against Casey's bar, confidentially pouring into his ear the
story of how the dongolas had given their captors a world of
trouble, swimming violently to the far reaches of Lake Geneva and
hiding among the bulrushes and reeds, when the swinging door of
the saloon was banged open and Tim Fagan rushed in.
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