THE WATER GOATS AND OTHER TROUBLES
By Ellis Parker Butler
By The Same Author
Pigs is Pigs
The Great American Pie Company
Mike Flannery On Duty and off
The Thin Santa Claus
That Pup, Kilo, etc.
THE WATER GOATS AND OTHER TROUBLES
CONTENTS
I. THE WATER GOATS II. MR. BILLINGS'S POCKETS III. OUR FIRST BURGLAR
I. THE WATER GOATS
“And then,” said the landscape gardener, combing his silky, pointed
beard gently with his long, artistic fingers, “in the lake you might
have a couple of gondolas. Two would be sufficient for a lake of this
size; amply sufficient. Yes,” he said firmly, “I would certainly advise
gondolas. They look well, and the children like to ride on them. And so
do the adults. I would have two gondolas in the lake.”
Mayor Dugan and the City Council, meeting as a committee of the whole
to receive the report of the landscape gardener and his plan for the new
public park, nodded their heads sagely.
“Sure!” said Mayor Dugan. “We want two of thim--of thim gon--thim gon--”
“Gondolas,” said the landscape gardener. “Sure!” said Mayor Dugan, “we
want two of thim. Remimber th' gondolas, Toole.”
“I have thim fast in me mind,” said Toole. “I will not let thim git
away, Dugan.”
The landscape gardener stood a minute in deep thought, looking at the
ceiling.
“Yes, that is all!” he said. “My report, and the plan, and what I have
mentioned, will be all you need.”
Then he shook hands with the mayor and with all the city councilmen
and left Jeffersonville forever, going back to New York where landscape
gardeners grow, and the doors were opened and the committee of the whole
became once more the regular meeting of the City Council.
The appropriation for the new park was rushed through in twenty minutes,
passing the second and third readings by the reading of the title under
a suspension of the by-laws, and being unanimously adopted. It was a
matter of life and death with Mayor Dugan and his ring. Jeffersonville
was getting tired of the joyful grafters, and murmurs of discontent
were concentrating into threats of a reform party to turn the
cheerful rascals out. The new park was to be a sop thrown to the
populace--something to make the city proud of itself and grateful to its
mayor and council. It was more than a pet scheme of Mayor Dugan, it
was a lifeboat for the ring. In half an hour the committees had been
appointed, and the mayor turned to the regular business. Then from his
seat at the left of the last row little Alderman Toole arose.
“Misther Mayor,” he said, “how about thim--thim don--thim don--Golas!”
whispered Alderman Grevemeyer hoarsely, “dongolas.”
“How about thim dongolas, Misther Mayor?” asked Alderman Toole.
“Sure!” said the mayor. “Will annyone move that we git two dongolas t'
put in th' lake for th' kids t' ride on? Will annyone move that Alderman
Toole be a conmittee of wan t' git two dongolas t' put in th' lake?”
“I make dot motions,” said Alderman Greveneyer, half raising his great
bulk from his seat and sinking back with a grunt.
“Sicond th' motion,” said Alderman Toole.
“Moved and siconded,” said the mayor, “that Alderman Toole be a
committee t' buy two dongolas t' put in th' lake for th' kids t' ride
on. Ye have heard th' motion.”
The motion was unanimously carried. That was the kind of City Council
Mayor Dugan had chosen.
When little Alderman Toole dropped into Casey's saloon that night on his
way home he did not slip meekly to the far end of the bar, as he usually
did. For the first time in his aldermanic career he had been put on a
committee where he would really have something to do, and he felt
the honour. He boldly took a place between the big mayor and Alderman
Grevemeyer, and said: “One of th' same, Casey,” with the air of a man
who has matters of importance on his mind. He felt that things were
coming his way. Even the big mayor seemed to appreciate it, for he put
his hand affectionately on Toole's shoulder.
“Mike,” said the mayor, “about thim dongolas, now; have ye thought anny
about where ye would be gettin' thim?”
“I have not,” said Toole. “I was thinkin' 'twould be good t' think it
over a bit, Dugan. Mebby 'twould be best t' git thim at Chicagy.” He
looked anxiously at the mayor's face, hoping for some sign of approval
or disapproval, but the mayor's face was noncommittal. “But mebby it
wouldn't,” concluded Toole. As a feeler he added: “Would ye be wantin'
me t' have thim made here, Dugan?”
The big mayor patted Toole on the shoulder indulgently.
“It's up t' you, Mike,” he said. “Ye know th' way Dugan does things, an'
th' way he likes thim done. I trust thim that I kin trust, an' whin I
put a man on committee I'm done wid th' thing. Of coorse,” he added,
putting his mouth close to Toole's ear, and winking at Grevemeyer, “ye
will see that there is a rake-off for me an' th' byes.”
“Sure!” said Toole.
The big mayor turned back to the bar and took a drink from his glass.
Grevemeyer took a drink from his glass, also. So did Toole, gravely.
Dugan wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and turned to Toole again.
“Mike,” he said, “what do ye think? Mebby 'twould do as well t' git a
couple of sicond-hand dongolas an' have thim painted up. If they was in
purty good shape no wan would know th' difference, an' 'twould make a
bit more rake-off fer th' byes, mebby.”
“Th' same word was on th' ind o' me tongue, Dugan,” said Toole, nodding
his head slowly. “I was considerin' this very minute where I could lay
me hand on a couple of purty good dongolas that has not been used much.
Flannagan could paint thim up fine!”
“Or Stoltzenau could do such paintings,” interposed Grevemeyer.
“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. The big mayor shook
him once and set him on the floor.
“Mike!” said the big mayor. “What's th' matter wid ye? What are ye goin'
afther Casey that way for? Is it crazy ye are? Or have ye gone insane?”
“Knock-out drops!” shouted Toole, shaking his fist at Casey, who looked
down at him in astonishment. “Knock-out drops! I will have th' law on
ye, Casey. I will have th' joint closed! I'll teach ye t' be givin'
knock-out drops t' th' aldermin of th' city!”
“Mike!” cried the big mayor, giving him another vigorous shake. “Shut up
wid ye! Casey wouldn't be givin' ye annything that wasn't good for ye.
Casey wouldn't be givin' ye knock-out drops.”
“No?” whispered Mike angrily. “No? Wouldn't he, Dugan? An' what has he
done t' me mimory, then, Dugan? What has he put in th' drink t' rob
me of me mimory? Wan minute ago I knew as well anny other man what a
dongola is like, an' now I have no mimory of anny dongolas at all. Wan
minute ago I could have told ye th' whole history of dongolas, from th'
time of Adam up till now, an' have drawed a picture of wan that annywan
could recognize--an' now I wouldn't know wan if ye was show it t' me! I
was about t' tell ye th' whole history of dongolas, Dugan; 'twas on th'
ind of me tongue t' give ye a talk on dongolas, whin I took a drink. Ye
saw me take a drink, Grevemeyer?”
“Ya!” said Grevemeyer, nodding his head solemnly. “You took such a
drink!”
“Sure,” said Toole, arranging his vest. “Grevemeyer saw me take th'
drink--an now I have no mimory of dongolas at all. If ye was t' show me
a chromo of wan I wouldn't know was it a dongola or what. I'm ashamed of
ye, Casey!”
“If ye done it, Casey, ye hadn't have ought t' have done it,” said Dugan
reprovingly. “Th' mind of him might be ruined intirely.”
“Stop, Dugan!” said Toole hastily. “I forgive him. Me mind will likely
be all right by mornin'. 'Tis purty good yit, ixcipt on th' subjict of
dongolas. I'm timporarily out of remimbrance what dongolas is. 'Tis odd
how thim knock-out drops works, Grevemeyer.”
“Ya!” said the alderman unsuspectingly, “gifing such a forgetfulness on
such easy things as dongolas.”
“Sure! You tell Dugan what dongolas is, Grevemeyer,” said Toole quickly.
Grevemeyer looked at his glass thoughtfully. His mind worked slowly
always, but he saw that it would not do for him to have knock-out drops
so soon after Toole.
“Ach!” he exclaimed angrily. “You are insulting to me mit such questions
Toole. So much will I tell you--never ask Germans what is dongolas. It
is not for Germans to talk about such things. Ask Casey.”
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.”
“Right fer ye!” exclaimed Casey. “Th' kid shoes of th' kid. 'Twas kid
leather they were made out of, Dugan. Th' dongola is some fancy kind
of a goat. Like box-calf is th' skin of th' calf of th' box-cow. Th'
dongola is some foreign kind of a goat, Dugan.”
“Ho, ho-o-o!” cried Toole, suddenly, knocking on his forehead with
the knuckles of his fist. The three men turned their eyes upon him and
stared.
“What ails ye now, Mike?” asked Dugan, disgustedly.
“Ho-o-o!” he cried again, slapping himself on the top of his head. “Me
mind is comm' back t' me, Dugan! Th' effects of th' knock-out drops is
wearin' off! I recall now that th' dongola is some fancy kind of a goat.
'Twill all come back t' me soon.
“Go along wid ye!” exclaimed Dugan. “Would ye be puttin' a goat in th'
lake for th' kids t' ride on?”
“Sure!” said Toole enthusiastically. “Sure I would, Dugan. Not th'
common goat I wouldn't. But dongola goats I would. Have ye heard of
dongola water goats, Casey? Was thim dongola goat skin shoes warranted
t' be water-proof?”
Casey wrinkled his brow.
“'Tis like they was, Toole,” he said doubtfully. “'Tis like they was
warranted t' be, but they wasn't.”
“Sure!” cried Toole joyously. “'Tis water-proof th' skin of th' dongola
water goats is, like th' skin of th' duck. An' swim? A duck isn't in it
wid a water goat. I remimber seein' thim in ould Ireland whin I was
a bye, Dugan, swimmin in th' lake of Killarney. Ah, 'twas a purty
picture.”
“I seem t' remimber thim mesilf,” he said. “Not clear, but a bit.”
“Sure ye do!” cried Toole. “Many's the time I have rode across th' lake
on th' back of a dongola. Me own father, who was a big man in th' ould
country, used t' keep a pair of thim for us childer. 'Twas himself
fetched thim from Donnegal, Dugan. 'Twas from Donnegal they got th' name
of thim, an' 'twas th' name ye give thim that misled me. Donnegoras
was what we called thim in th' ould counry--donnegoras from Donnegal. I
remimber th' two of thim I had whin I was a kid, Dugan--wan was a Nanny,
an' wan was a Billy, an'--”
“Go on home, Mike,” said Dugan. “Go on home an' sleep it off!” and the
little alderman from the Fourth Ward picked up his hat and coat, and
obeyed his orders.
Instituting a new public park and seeing that in every purchase and
every contract there is a rake-off for the ring is a big job, and
between this and the fight against the rapidly increasing strength of
the reform party, Mayor Dugan had his hands more than full. He had no
time to think of dongolas, and he did not want to think of them--Toole
was the committee on dongolas, and it was his duty to think of them,
and to worry about them, if any worry was necessary. But Toole did not
worry. He sat down and wrote a letter to his cousin Dennis, official
keeper of the zoo in Idlewild Park at Franklin, Iowa.
“Dear Dennis,” he wrote. “Have you any dongola goats in your menagery
for I want two right away good strong ones answer right away your
affectionate cousin alderman Michael Toole.”
“Ps monny no object.”
When Dennis Toole received this letter he walked through his zoo and
considered his animals thoughtfully. The shop-worn brown bear would not
do to fill cousin Mike's order; neither would the weather-worn red deer
nor the family of variegated tame rabbits. The zoo of Idlewild Park at
Franklin was woefully short of dongola goats--in fact, to any but the
most imaginative and easily pleased child, it was lacking in nearly
every thing that makes a zoo a congress of the world's most rare and
thrilling creatures. After all, the nearest thing to a goat was a goat,
and goats were plenty in Franklin. Dennis felt an irresistible longing
to aid Mike--the longing that comes to any healthy man when a request
is accompanied by the legend “Money no object.” He wrote that evening to
Mike.
“Dear Mike,” he wrote. “I've got two good strong dongola goats I can let
you have cheap. I'm overstocked with dongolas to-day. I want to get rid
of two. Zoo is getting too crowded with all kinds of animals and I
don't need so many dongola goats. I will sell you two for fifty dollars.
Apiece. What do you want them for? Your affectionate cousin, Dennis
Toole, Zoo keeper. PS. Crates extra.”
“Casey,” said Mike to his friend the saloon keeper when he received this
communication, “'tis just as I told ye--dongolas is goats. I have
been corrispondin' with wan of th' celibrated animal men regardin' th'
dongola water goat, an' I have me eye on two of thim this very minute.
But 'twill be ixpinsive, Casey, mighty ixpinsive. Th' dongola water
goat is a rare birrd, Casey. They have become extinct in th' lakes
of Ireland, an' what few of thim is left in th' worrld is held at
outrajeous prices. In th' letter I have from th' animal man, Casey, he
wants two hundred dollars apiece for each dongola water goat, an' 'twill
be no easy thing for him t' git thim.”
“Hasn't he thim in his shop, Mike?” asked Casey.
“He has not, Casey,” said the little alderman. “He has no place for
thim. Cages he has, an' globes for goldfish, an' birrd cages, but th'
size of th' shop l'aves no room for an aquarium, Casey. He has no tank
for the preservation of water goats. Hippopotamuses an' alligators an'
crocodiles an' dongola water goats an' sea lions he does not keep in
stock, Casey, but sinds out an' catches thim whin ordered. He writes
that his agints has their eyes on two fine dongolas, an' he has
tiligraphed thim t' catch thim.”
“Are they near by, Mike?” asked Casey, much interested.
“Naw,” said Toole. “'Twill be some time till I git thim. Th' last he
heard of thim they were swimmin' in th' Lake of Geneva.”
“Is it far, th' lake?” asked Casey.
“I disremimber how far,” said Toole. “'Tis in Africa or Asia, or mebby
'tis in Constantinople. Wan of thim countries it is, annyhow.”
But to his cousin Dennis he wrote:
“Dear Dennis--I will take them two dongolas. Crate them good and solid.
Do not send them till I tell you. Send the bill to me. Your affectionate
cousin alderman Michael Toole. Ps Make bill for two hundred dollars a
piece. Business is business. This is between us two. M. T.”
A Keeper of the Water Goats had been selected with the utmost care,
combining in the choice practical politics with a sense of fitness.
Timothy Fagan was used to animals--for years he had driven a dumpcart.
He was used to children--he had ten or eleven of his own. And he
controlled several votes in the Fourth Ward. His elevation from the
dump-cart of the street cleaning department to the high office of
Keeper of the Water Goats was one that Dugan believed would give general
satisfaction.
When the goats arrived in Jeffersonville the two heavy crates were
hauled to Alderman Toole's back yard to await the opening of the park,
and there Mayor Dugan and Goat Keeper Fagan came to inspect them.
Alderman Toole led the way to them with pride, and Mayor Dugan's creased
brow almost uncreased as he bent down and peered between the bars of the
crates. They were fine goats. Perhaps they looked somewhat more dejected
than a goat usually looks--more dirty and down at the heels than a goat
often looks--but they were undoubtedly goats. As specimens of ordinary
Irish goats they might not have passed muster with a careful buyer, but
no doubt they were excellent examples of the dongola.
“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.
He was mad. He was very mad, but he was a great deal wetter than mad. He
looked as if he had been soaked in water over night, and not wrung out
in the morning.
“Mike!” he whispered hoarsely, grasping the little alderman by the arm.
“I want ye! I want ye down at th' park.”
A chill of fear passed over Alderman Toole. He turned his face to Fagan
and laid his hand on his shoulder.
“Tim,” he demanded, “has annything happened t' th' dongolas?”
“Is annything happened t' th' dongolas!” exclaimed Fagan sarcastically.
“Is annything wrong with thim water goats? Oh, no, Toole! Nawthin'
has gone wrong with thim! Only they won't go into th' wather, Mike! Is
annything gone wrong with thim, did ye say? Nawthin'! They be in good
health, but they are not crazy t' be swimmin'. Th' way they do not
hanker t' dash into th' water is marvellous, Mike. No water for thim!”
“Hist!” said Toole uneasily, glancing around to see that no one but
Casey was in hearing. “Mebby ye have not started thim right, Tim.”
“Mebby not,” said Fagan angrily. “Mebby I do not know how t' start th'
water goat, Toole! Mebby there is one way unbeknownst t' me. If so, I
have not tried it. But th' forty-sivin other ways I have tried, an' th'
goats will not swim. I have started thim backwards an' I have started
thim frontwards, an' I have took thim in by th' horns an' give thim
lessons t' swim, an' they will not swim! I have done me duty by thim,
Mike, an' I have wrastled with thim, an' rolled in th' lake with thim.
Was it t' be swimmin' teacher t' water goats ye got me this job for?”
“Hist!” said Toole again. “Not so loud, Tim! Ye haven't told Dugan have
ye?”
“I have not!” said Tim, with anger. “I have not told annybody annything
excipt thim goats an' what I told thim is not dacint hearin'. I have
conversed with thim in strong language, an' it done no good. No swimmin'
for thim! Come on down an' have a chat with thim yersilf, Toole. Come
on down an' argue with thim, an persuade thim with th' soft sound of yer
voice t' swim. Come on down an' git thim water goats used t' th' water.”
“Ye don't understand th' water goat, Tim,” said Toole in gentle reproof.
“I will show ye how t' handle him,” and he went out, followed by the wet
Keeper of the Water Goats.
The two water goats stood at the side of the lake, wet and mournful,
tied to two strong stakes. They looked weary and meek, for they had had
a hard morning, but as soon as they saw Tim Fagan they brightened up.
They arose simultaneously on their hind legs and their eyes glittered
with deadly hatred. They strained at their ropes, and then, suddenly,
panic-stricken, they turned and ran, bringing up at the ends of their
ropes with a shock that bent the stout stakes to which they were
fastened. They stood still and cowered, trembling.
“Lay hold!” commanded Toole. “Lay hold of a horn of th' brute till I
show ye how t' make him swim.”
Through the fresh gravel of the beach the four feet of the reluctant
goat ploughed deep furrows. It shook its head from side to side, but
Toole and Fagan held it fast, and into the water it went.
“Now!” cried Alderman Toole. “Git behind an' push, Tim! Wan! Two! Three!
Push!”
Alderman Toole released his hold and Keeper of the Water Goats Fagan
pushed. Then they tried the other goat. It was easier to try the other
water goat than to waste time hunting up the one they had just tried,
for it had gone away. As soon as Alderman Toole let it go, it went. It
seemed to want to get to the other end of the park as soon as possible,
but it did not take the short cut across the lake--it went around. But
it did not mind travel--it went to the farthest part of the park, and it
would have gone farther if it could. So Alderman Toole and Keeper Fagan
tried the other water goat. That one went straight to the other end of
the park. It swerved from a straight line but once, and that was when
it shied at a pail of water that was in the way. It did not seem to like
water.
In the Franklin Zoo Dennis Toole had just removed the lid of his tin
lunch-pail when the telegraph boy handed him the yellow envelope. He
turned it over and over, studying its exterior, while the boy went to
look at the shop-worn brown bear. The zoo keeper decided that there was
no way to find out what was inside of the envelope but to open it. He
was ready for the worst. He wondered, unthinkingly, which one of his
forty or more cousins was dead, and opened the envelope.
“Dennis Toole, Franklin Zoo,” he read, “Dongolas won't swim. How do you
make them swim? Telegraph at once. Michael Toole.”
He laid the telegram across his knees and looked at it as if it was some
strange communication from another sphere. He pushed his hat to one side
of his head and scratched the tuft of red hair thus bared.
“'Dongolas won't swim!”' he repeated slowly. “An' how do I make thim
swim? I wonder does Cousin Mike take th' goat t' be a fish, or what?
I wonder does he take swimmin' to be wan of th' accomplishments of th'
goat?” He shook his head in puzzlement, and frowned at the telegram.
“Would he be havin' a goat regatta, I wonder, or was he expectin' th'
goat t' be a web-footed animal? 'Won't swim!' he repeated angrily.
'Won't swim!' An' what is it to me if they won't swim? Nayther would
I swim if I was a goat. 'Tis none of me affair if they will not swim.
There was nawthin' said about 'swimmin' goats.' Goats I can give him,
an' dongola goats I can give him, an jumpin' goats, an' climbin' goats,
an' walkin' goats, but 'tis not in me line t'furnish submarine goats.
No, nor goats t' fly up in th' air! Would anny one,” he said with
exasperation, “would anny one that got a plain order for goats ixpict t'
have t' furnish goats that would hop up off th' earth an' make a balloon
ascension? 'Tis no fault of Dennis Toole's thim goats won't swim. What
will Mike be telegraphin' me nixt, I wonder? 'Dear Dennis: Th' goats
won't lay eggs. How do ye make thim?' Bye, have ye a piece of paper t'
write an answer t' me cousin Mike on?”
The Keeper of the Water Goats and Alderman Toole were sitting on a
rustic bench looking sadly at the water goats when the Jeffersonville
telegraph messenger brought them Dennis Toole's answer. Alderman Toole
grasped the envelope eagerly and tore it open, and Fagan leaned over his
shoulder as he read it:
“Michael Toole, Alderman, Jeffersonville,” they read. “Put them in the
water and see if they will swim. Dennis Toole.”
“Put thim in th' wather!” exclaimed Alderman Toole angrily. “Why don't
ye put thim in th' wather, Fagan? Why did ye not think t' put thim
in th' wather?” He looked down at his soaking clothes, and his anger
increased. “Why have ye been tryin' t' make thim dongolas swim on land,
Fagan?” he asked sarcastically. “Or have ye been throwin' thim up in th'
air t' see thim swim? Why don't ye put thim in th' wather? Why don't
ye follow th' instructions of th' expert dongola water goat man an' put
thim in th' wather if ye want thim t' swim?”
Fagan looked at the angry alderman. He looked at the dripping goats.
“So I did, Mike,” he said seriously. “We both of us did.”
“An' did we!” cried Alderman Toole in mock surprise. “Is it possible we
thought t' put thim in th' wather whin we wanted thim t' swim? It was in
me mind that we tied thim to a tree an' played ring-around-a-rosy
with thim t' induce thim t' swim! Where's a pencil? Where's a piece of
paper?” he cried.
He jerked them from the hand of the messenger boy. The afternoon was
half worn away. Every minute was precious. He wrote hastily and handed
the message to the messenger boy.
“Fagan,” he said, as the boy disappeared down the path at a run, “raise
up yer spirits an come an' give th' water goats some more instructions
in th' ginteel art of swimmin' in th' wather.”
Fagan sighed and arose. He walked toward the dejected water goats, and,
taking the nearest one by the horns yanked it toward the lake. The goat
was too weak to do more than hold back feebly and bleat its disapproval
of another bath. The more lessons in swimming it received the less it
seemed to like to swim. It had developed a positive hatred of swimming.
Dennis Toole received the second telegram with a savage grin. He had
expected it. He opened it with malicious slowness.
“Dennis Toole, Franklin Zoo,” he read. “Where do you think I put them to
make them swim? They won't swim in the lake. It won't do no good to
us for them to swim on dry land. No fooling, now, how do you make them
dongolas swim? Answer quick.
“Michael Toole.”
He did not have to study out his reply, for he had been considering it
ever since he had sent the other telegram. He took a blank from the
boy and wrote the answer. The sun was setting when the Jeffersonville
messenger delivered it to Alderman Toole.
“Mike Toole, Jeffersonville,” it said. “Quit fooling, yourself. Don't
you know young dongolas are always water-shy at first? Tie them in the
lake and let them soak, and they will learn to swim fast enough. If I
didn't know any more about dongolas than you do I would keep clear of
them. Dennis Toole.”
“Listen to that now,” said Alderman Toole, a smile spreading over his
face. “An' who ever said I knew annything about water goats, anny how?
Th' natural history of th' water goat is not wan of the things usually
considered part of th' iducation of th' alderman from th' Fourth Ward,
Fagan, but 'tis surprised I am that ye did not know th' goat is like th'
soup bean, an' has t' be soaked before usin'. Th' Keeper of th' Water
Goat should know th' habits of th' animal, Fagan. Why did ye not put
thim in to soak in th' first place? I am surprised at ye!”
“It escaped me mind,” said Fagan. “I was thinkin' these was broke t'
swimmin' an' did not need t' be soaked. I wonder how long they should be
soaked, Mike?”
“'Twill do no harrm t' soak thim over night, anny how,” said Toole.
“Over night is th' usual soak given t' th' soup-bean an' th' salt
mackerel, t' say nawthin' of th' codfish an' others of th' water-goat
family. Let th' water goats soak over night, Fagan, an by mornin' they
will be ready t' swim like a trout. We will anchor thim in th' lake,
Fagan--an' we will say nawthin' t' Dugan. 'Twould be a blow t' Dugan
was he t' learn th' dongolas provided fer th' park was young an'
wather-shy.”
They anchored the water goats firmly in the lake, and left them there to
overcome their shyness, which seemed, as Fagan and Toole left them, to
be as great as ever. The goats gazed sadly, and bleated longingly, after
the two men as they disappeared in the dusk, and when the men had passed
entirely out of sight, the goats looked at each other and complained
bitterly.
Alderman Toole thoughtfully changed his wet clothes for dry ones before
he went to Casey's that evening, for he thought Dugan might be there,
and he was. He was there when Toole arrived, and his brow was black.
He had had a bad day of it. Everything had gone wrong with him and his
affairs. A large lump of his adherents had sloughed off from his party
and had affiliated with his opponents, and the evening opposition paper
had come out with a red-hot article condemning the administration for
reckless extravagance. It had especially condemned Dugan for burdening
the city with new bonds to create an unneeded park, and the whole thing
had ended with a screech of ironic laughter over the--so the editor
called it--fitting capstone of the whole business, the purchase of two
dongola goats at perfectly extravagant prices.
“Mike,” said the big mayor severely, when the little alderman had
offered his greetings, “there is the divil an' all t' pay about thim
dongolas. Th' News is full of thim. 'Twill be th' ind of us all if they
do not pan out well. Have ye tried thim in th' water yet?”
“Sure!” exclaimed the little alderman with a heartiness he did not feel.
“What has me an' Fagan been doin' all day but tryin' thim? Have no fear
of th' wather goats, Dugan.”
“Do they swim well, Mike?” asked the big mayor kindly, but with a weary
heaviness he did not try to conceal.
“Swim!” exclaimed Toole. “Did ye say swim, Dugan? Swim is no name for
th' way they rip thro' the wather! 'Twas marvellous t' see thim. Ah,
thim dongolas is wonderful animals! Do ye think we could persuade thim
t' come out whin we wanted t' come home? Not thim, Dugan! 'Twas all me
an' Fagan could do t' pull thim out by main force, an' th' minute we let
go of thim, back they wint into th' wather. 'Twas pitiful t' hear th'
way they bleated t' be let back into th' wather agin, Dugan, so we let
thim stay in for th' night.”
“Ye did not let thim loose in th' lake, Mike?” exclaimed the big mayor.
“Ye did not let thim be so they could git away?”
“No,” said Toole. “No! They'll not git away, Dugan. We anchored thim
fast.”
“Ye done good, Mike,” said the big mayor.
The next morning Keeper of the Water Goats Fagan was down sufficiently
early to drag the bodies of the goats out of the lake long before even
the first citizen was admitted to the park. Alone, and hastily he hid
them in the little tool house, and locked the door on them. Then he went
to find Alderman Toole. He found him in the mayor's office, and beckoned
him to one side. In hot, quick accents he told him the untimely fate of
the dongola water goats, and the mayor--with an eye for everything on
that important day--saw the red face of Alderman Toole grow longer and
redder; saw the look of pain and horror that overspread it. A chilling
fear gripped his own heart.
“Mike,” he said. “What's th' matter with th' dongolas?”
It was Fagan who spoke, while the little alderman from the Fourth Ward
stood bereft of speech in this awful moment.
“Dugan,” he said, “I have not had much ixperience with th' dongola
wather goat, an' th' ways an' habits of thim is strange t' me, but if I
was t' say what I think, I would say they was over-soaked.”
“Over-soaked, Fagan?” said the mayor crossly. “Talk sense, will ye?”
“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, more in sorrow than in
resentfulness.
“Mike,” he said, “Mike Toole! What in th' worrld made ye soak thim
dongolas?”
“Dugan,” pleaded Toole, laying his hand on the big mayor's arm. “Dugan,
old man, don't look at me that way. There was nawthin' else t' do but
soak thim dongolas. Many's th' time I have seen me old father soakin'
th' young dongolas t' limber thim up for swimmin'. 'If iver ye have to
do with dongolas, Mike,' he used t' say t' me, 'soak thim well firrst.'
So I soaked thim, an' 'tis none of me fault, nor Fagan's either, that
they soaked full o' wather. First-class dongolas is wather-proof, as
iveryone knows, Dugan, an' how was we t' know thim two was not? How
was me an' Fagan t' know their skins would soak in wather like a pillow
case? Small blame to us, Dugan.”
The big mayor took his head between his hands and stared moodily at the
floor.
“Go awn away!” he said after a while. “Ye have done for me an' th' byes,
Toole. Ye have soaked us out of office, wan an' all of us. I want t' be
alone. It is all over with us. Go awn away.”
Toole and the Keeper of the Water Goats stole silently from the room and
out into the street. Fagan was the first to speak.
“How was we t' know thim dongolas would soak in wather that way, Toole?”
he said defensively. “How was we t' know they was not th' wather-proof
kind of dongolas?”
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 alive. 'Tis not
too often I take a bath, Mike, but if I was wan of thim spongy-hided
dongolas an' had t' be varnished each time I got in me bath tub, I would
stop bathin' for good an' all.”
He looked toward the house.
“I'll not worry,” he said. “Maggie will be sad t' hear th' job is gone,
but she would have took it harder t' know her Tim was wastin' his time
varnishin' th' slab side of a spongy goat.”
II. MR. BILLINGS'S POCKETS
On the sixteenth of June Mr. Rollin Billings entered his home at
Westcote very much later than usual, and stealing upstairs, like a thief
in the night, he undressed and dropped into bed. In two minutes he was
asleep, and it was no wonder, for by that time it was five minutes after
three in the morning, and Mr. Billings's usual bedtime was ten o'clock.
Even when he was delayed at his office he made it an invariable rule to
catch the nine o'clock train home.
When Mrs. Billings awoke the next--or, rather, that same--morning, she
gazed a minute at the thin, innocent face of her husband, and was in
the satisfied frame of mind that takes an unexpected train delay as
a legitimate excuse, when she happened to cast her eyes upon Mr.
Billings's coat, which was thrown carelessly over the foot of the bed.
Protruding from one of the side pockets was a patent nursing-bottle,
half full of milk. Instantly Mrs. Billings was out of bed and searching
Mr. Billings's other pockets. To her horror her search was fruitful.
In a vest pocket she found three false curls, or puffs of hair, such as
ladies are wearing to-day to increase the abundance of their own, and
these curls were of a rich brownish red. Finally, when she dived into
his trousers pocket, she found twelve acorns carefully wrapped in a
lady's handkerchief, with the initials “T. M. C.” embroidered in one
corner.
All these Mrs. Billings hid carefully in her upper bureau drawer and
proceeded to dress. When at length she awakened Mr. Billings, he yawned,
stretched, and then, realizing that getting-up time had arrived, hopped
briskly out of bed.
“You got in late last night,” said Mrs. Billings pleasantly.
If she had expected Mr. Billings to cringe and cower she was mistaken.
He continued to dress, quite in his usual manner, as if he had a clear
conscience.
“Indeed I did, Mary,” he said. “It was three when I entered the house,
for the clock was just striking.”
“Something must have delayed you,” suggested Mrs. Billings.
“Otherwise, dear,” said Mr. Billings, “I should have been home much
sooner.
“Probably,” said Mrs. Billings, suddenly assuming her most sarcastic
tone, as she reached into her bureau drawer and drew out the patent
nursing-bottle, “this had something to do with your being delayed!”
Mr. Billings looked at the nursing-bottle, and then he drew out his
watch and looked at that.
“My dear,” he said, “you are right. It did. But I now have just time
to gulp down my coffee and catch my train. To-night, when I return from
town, I will tell you the most remarkable story of that nursing-bottle,
and how it happened to be in my pocket, and in the mean time I beg
you--I most sincerely beg you--to feel no uneasiness.”
With this he hurried out of the room, and a few moments later his wife
saw him running for his train.
All day Mrs. Billings was prey to the most disturbing thoughts, and
as soon as dinner was finished that evening she led the way into the
library.
“Now, Rollin?” she said, and without hesitation Mr. Billings began.
I. THE PATENT NURSING-BOTTLE
You have (he said), I know, met Lemuel, the coloured elevator boy in our
office building, and you know what a pleasant, accommodating lad he is.
He is the sort of boy for whom one would gladly do a favour, for he is
always so willing to do favours for others, but I was thinking nothing
of this when I stepped from my office at exactly five o'clock yesterday
evening. I was thinking of nothing but getting home to dinner as soon as
possible, and was just stepping into the elevator when Lemuel laid his
hand gently on my arm.
“I beg yo' pahdon, Mistah Billings,” he said politely, “but would yo' do
me a favour?”
“Certainly, Lemuel,” I said; “how much can I lend you?”
“'Tain't that, sah,” he said. “I wish t' have a word or two in private
with yo'. Would yo' mind steppin' back into yo' office until I git these
folks out of th' buildin', so's I can speak to yo'?”
I knew I had still half an hour before my six-two train, and I was
not unwilling to do Lemuel a favour, so I went back to my office as he
desired, and waited there until he appeared, which was not until he had
taken all the tenants down in his elevator. Then he opened the door and
came in. With him was the young man I had often seen in the office next
to mine, as I passed, and a young woman on whom I had never set my eyes
before. No sooner had they opened the door than the young man began to
speak, and Lemuel stood unobtrusively to one side.
“Mr. Billings,” said the young man, “you may think it strange that I
should come to you in this way when you and I are hardly acquaintances,
but I have often observed you passing my door, and have noted your
kind-looking face, and the moment I found this trouble upon me I
instantly thought of you as the one man who would be likely to help me
out of my difficulty.”
While he said this I had time to study his face, and also to glance at
the young woman, and I saw that he must, indeed, be in great trouble. I
also saw that the young woman was pretty and modest and that she, also,
was in great distress. I at once agreed to help him, provided I should
not be made to miss the six-thirty train, for I saw I was already too
late for the six-two.
“Good!” he cried. “For several years Madge--who is this young lady--and
I have been in love, and we wish to be married this evening, but her
father and my father are waiting at the foot of the elevator at this
minute, and they have been waiting there all day. There is no other way
for us to leave the building, for the foot of the stairs is also the
foot of the elevator, and, in fact, when I last peeped, Madge's father
was sitting on the bottom step. It is now exactly fifteen minutes of
six, and at six o'clock they mean to come up and tear Madge and me away,
and have us married.”
“To--” I began.
“To each other,” said the young man with emotion.
“But I thought that was what you wanted?” I exclaimed.
“Not at all! Not at all!” said the young man, and the young woman added
her voice in protest, too. “I am the head of the Statistical Department
of the Society for the Obtaining of a Uniform National Divorce Law, and
the work in that department has convinced me beyond a doubt that forced
marriages always end unhappily. In eighty-seven thousand six hundred and
four cases of forced marriages that I have tabulated I have found that
eighty-seven thousand six hundred and three have been unhappy. In the
face of such statistics Madge and I dare not allow ourselves to be
married against our wills. We insist on marrying voluntarily.”
“That could be easily arranged,” I ventured to say, “in view of the fact
that both your fathers wish you to be married.”
“Not at all,” said Madge, with more independence than I had thought her
capable of; “because my father and Henry's father are gentlemen of
the old school. I would not say anything against either father, for in
ordinary affairs I they are two most suave and charming old gentlemen,
but in this they hold to the old-school idea that children should allow
their parents to select their life-partners, and they insist that Henry
and I allow ourselves to be forced to marry each other. And that,
in spite of the statistics Henry has shown them. Our whole happiness
depends on our getting out of this building before they can come up and
get us. That is why we appeal to you.”
“If you still hesitate, after what Madge has said,” said Henry, pulling
a large roll of paper out of his pocket, “here are the statistics.”
“Very well,” I said, “I will help you, if I can do so and not miss the
six-thirty train. What is your plan?”
“It is very simple,” said Henry. “Our fathers are both quite
near-sighted, and as six o'clock draws near they will naturally become
greatly excited and nervous, and, therefore, less observant of small
things. I have brought with me some burnt cork with which I will blacken
my face, and I will change clothes with Lemuel, and, in the one moment
necessary to escape, my father will not recognize me. Lemuel, on
the other hand, will whiten his face with some powder that Madge has
brought, and will wear my clothes, and in the excitement my father will
seize him instead of me.”
“Excellent,” I said, “but what part do I play in this?”
“This part,” said Henry, “you will wear, over your street clothes, a
gown that Madge has brought in her suit-case and a hat that she has also
brought, both of which her father will easily recognize, while Madge
will redden her face with rouge, muss her hair, don a torn, calico
dress, and with a scrub-rag and a mop in her hands easily pass for a
scrub-woman.
“And then?” I asked.
“Then you and Lemuel will steal cautiously down the stairs, as if you
were Madge and I seeking to escape, while Madge and I, as Lemuel and the
scrub-woman, will go down by the elevator. My father and Madge's father
will seize you and Lemuel--”
“And I shall appear like a fool when they discover I am a respectable
business man rigged up in woman's clothes,” I said.
“Not at all,” said Madge, “for Henry and I have thought of that. You
must play your part until you see that henry and I have escaped from
the elevator and have left the building, and that is all. I have had the
forethought to prepare an alibi for you. As soon as you see that Henry
and I are safe outside the building, you must become very indignant, and
insist that you are a respectable married woman, and in proof you
must hand my father the contents of this package. He will be convinced
immediately and let you go, and then Lemuel can run you up to your
office and you can take off my dress and hat and catch the six-thirty
train without trouble.” She then handed me a small parcel, which I
slipped into my coat pocket.
When this had been agreed upon she and Henry left the office and I took
the hat and dress from the suit-case and put them on, while Lemuel put
on Henry's suit and whitened his face. This took but a few minutes, and
we went into the hall and found Henry and Madge already waiting for us.
Henry was blackened into a good likeness of Lemuel, and Madge was quite
a mussy scrub-woman. They immediately entered the elevator and began to
descend slowly, while Lemuel and I crept down the stairs.
Lemuel and I kept as nearly as possible opposite the elevator, so that
we might arrive at the foot of the stairs but a moment before Madge and
Henry, and we could hear the two fathers shuffling on the street floor,
when suddenly, as we reached the third floor, we heard a whisper from
Henry in the elevator. The elevator had stuck fast between the third and
fourth floors. As with one mind, Lemuel and I seated ourselves on a step
and waited until Henry should get the elevator running again and could
proceed to the street floor.
For a while we could hear no noise but the grating of metal on metal as
Henry worked with the starting lever of the elevator, and then we heard
the two voices of the fathers.
“It is a ruse,” said one father. “They are pretending the elevator is
stuck, and when we grow impatient and start up the stairs they will come
down with a rush and escape us.”
“But we are not so silly as that,” said the other father. “We will stay
right here and wait until they come down.”
At that Lemuel and I settled ourselves more comfortably, for there was
nothing else to do. I cursed inwardly as I felt the minutes slip by and
knew that half-past six had come and gone, but I was sure you would not
like to have me desert those two poor lovers who were fighting to ward
off the statistics, so I sat still and silent. So did Lemuel.