“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.”